


If you don't tear, I won't crack

by hauntedpoem



Series: Fractured [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Het Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, More Feels, Personality Disorders, Slash, Toxic Relationships, angst aplenty in later chapters, growing & living together, interesting family dynamics, modern Winterfell, psychopathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:39:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1960581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time, Theon lies sprawled on Jon's bed. He's rambling about sailing boats and whales and Jon admits he finds it a little boring. His room is filled with band posters and he knows that it must look pretty immature to Theon who's older, makes more money and has bedded more women than he'll ever have. He'll agree with that. Theon lazily takes off his sneakers, makes himself comfortable and drowsily asks for entertainment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thehairshirt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thehairshirt/gifts), [Neliore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neliore/gifts).



> This work has now a sequel (WIP).

 

Robb has finals. He's stressed out of his mind and his living space is a mess. By the end of this semester he'll be drinking over 100 cups of black coffee, eating more than 4 bags of chips a day and masturbating whenever he cannot sleep, which is very often and not usually at night. With clockwork precision. And that is also his last resort if homeopathic sedatives don't work after he's had enough energy drinks mixed with some creatively named witch-doctor's concoction supposed to help him concentrate.

Right now, peace and quiet are essential requirements.

He goes straight to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee and hopes that by 10 AM he'll finally be able to read something else, something that doesn't involve Athenian Democracy, Plato's Republic or Aristotle's works, for a change. For a student majoring in Political Science, Robb is pretty much dedicated to his lonely hours of self-study and is adamant that no one interrupts him. No one.

He is snappy and anxious and sits in his violet-blue boxers and his green Winterfell United t-shirt, squirming in his chair like a five year old; he hasn't shaved in 3 days and his hair is a coppery jumble of straggly curls. He knows he's got knots in there but he cannot make himself touch a hairbrush. Too time consuming. That… and hair-care paraphernalia started giving him headaches ever since Sansa has tried out of the goodness of her heart to use a flat iron on him.

As his bloodshot eyes pierce through a textbook, Robb's added another to the list. No warm showers. They might make him sleepy and too comfortable. And comfort brings laziness.

His eyes are tired and in great need of prescription glasses - he knows- and there's this frenzied vibe around him that emits on short wavelengths the same mantra "Must study harder, must study harder".

It's weird, really. Jon's in the other room and he seems unaffected. Just yesterday he heard him play a Morissey record and even dared dance to it, in the kitchen, of all places.

He almost wanted to smash his head on the counter, that's how annoying it was.

 _"You're ruining my concentration"_ , he said.

Robb's buzzing like a fridge, dangling his HB pencil rhythmically over the manual. Instead of highlighting and circling key words like Sansa does (with a neon pink highlighter – refillable, mind you), it seems that he prefers to drum various stick-like objects to the tune of his texts.

_Screw Pericles!_

His half brother, Jon, tries to please him (but obviously fails) by simply avoiding Robb's area. After years of attending an all-boys boarding school, he knows better than to cross his path, when Robb is his stressed self. They never fought directly; however, they were really close to an out of proportions hair-pulling, without any insulting words in the process. It was a good thing that Theon was there to stop them and prove for once that he could be the mature one. For once.

.

.

.

Frowning and extremely alert, Jon approached the fridge. He grabbed a carton of soymilk and some porridge from yesterday's meal, then skedaddled to his room. It wasn't like he didn't have finals as well, although he always seemed so calm and in control of himself. In fact, Jon was more anxious than he let out. He's having finals himself but has no one to make it easier for him. Pyp and Grenn are good friends, although they stressed him enough by asking for his text notes and essays, while Sam is a real slave driver when it comes to studying, always asking him test questions, thus making him all nervous and confused. He sometimes wonders why he ever chose Comparative Literature as his major. It's all Samwell's fault. Sam and his literary aspirations...

But look at Robb, he's in the pits, now, literally.

He makes a beeline for his room, avoiding blue-sky eyes and psychotic glares. He really tries, he really does.

He could blame it all on Catelyn. He could blame it all on Ned Stark. He could blame his bastard origins and the fact that he'd been deprived of maternal contact all his childhood. He could do that and prove the hordes of therapists right. However, he chooses not to. Instead, he slams the door by mistake (blame it on the open window) and goes back to stuffing his mouth and reading his very tidy notes on Renaissance literature. He cringes as he catches himself reading the same line about Dante Alghieri's Divine Comedy twice and realizes it's because he's too distracted by the annoying sound of a pen hitting determinedly a textbook. Robb. It's Robb. Just Robb. Nevermind.

He scurries for his Ipod and his noise-cancelling headphones that promise a surround sound and presses play on some obscure indie electronic music. That will do… 

.

.

.

Back in the living-room, Robb is still drumming his pencil, his eyes far away, his mind drowned in some impossible fantasy of turning back time and starting over, perhaps a new major? New professors? A new place? A new family?

It's the downward slippery slope of the energy drink's after effects and he knows it. Heart beating faster, breath hitching, muscles giving in, sweaty forehead, cold palms. He collapses at the table, mentally chastising himself for not keeping to his own room.

He's almost sorry after he remembers a dour-faced Jon trying to slip noiselessly through the kitchen area and wants to go and apologize but he knows it's too late for that sort of repentant behavior. Jon would understand, he reminds himself with a pained look in his eyes. It's not as if Catelyn pressures _him_ with phone calls the way she does to Robb, right? Or is it because she doesn't ever call Jon to ask about anything and just avoids him whenever she has the occasion? That happens almost every time they meet for family dinners on holidays. Robb's not blind but he chooses to be. It's different, he thinks.

There…  _another_  excuse for your behavior.

Jerk!

How he misses Theon…

It's times like these when he wants to run away, catch him by surprise and pull him into a bear-hug, wrestle him onto the bed and stifle him with fluffy pillows until Theon yells and starts to drunkenly sing sailor-songs – because Theon is where the sea is and the sea is vast and capricious.

And Theon's always half-drunk.

And they'll talk and play and have more fun than these past two years together and when he'll ask Theon what's he going to do with his life, the other is going to look straight into his soul and reply _"Wait for you to make up your mind"_. And that is the sweetest, most amazing thing someone has ever said to him, coupled with those stormy eyes and that cheeky yet meaningful smile. And Robb knows he's wasting his time because he can hear his superego voicing stuff in his head.  _Which_  makes him feel schizophrenic.

_Don't throw away your life! Stop chasing after Theon!_

He knows it's too late to go back in time and simply accept Theon's offer of sailing the seas in his yacht, research marine fauna and write reports about the reproductive cycles of squids and cormorants, learn to navigate responsibly – if possible, and eat roasted squid and other outlandish foods on some unknown, faraway coast.

.

.

.

Jon, on the other hand, managed to go through a third of his notes in due time to get ready for the library meeting with Sam and their friends.

"Finished, already?"

Robb asks him, voice all croaky and eyes still scarily close to an owl's, three hours later. Instead, he wants to ask him how he's doing it, how does he manage to keep it together. He can't. Too much pride?

But Jon barely looks at him and smiles inward.

"You should take a break, eat something healthy and sleep for a bit, Robb."

There is something tender and caring in his voice, his face looks so beautiful (too beautiful and distracting, definitely a Stark!) despite the docile gloominess, with those rich, black curls and those enigmatic eyes, and Robb makes mental notes about commissioning someone with Jon's portrait. 

"Yeah, I'll do that", he conforms, stretches emphatically from his ergonomic chair -the one he dragged at 4 A.M. in the morning all the way to the living room to start another study session- and cracks his knuckles as Jon closes the door behind him.

He's alone now, hours later, trying to gather his strength and move from the table but he's seized by a terrible bout of stomach cramps and only then he remembers that the past 15 hours or so have been filled only with energy drinks and the occasional black coffee. He tries to calm himself down and sips some water from Jon's BPA-free bottle only to find that he's going to throw up and he cannot make a mess of the kitchen so he runs for the toilet, kneeling and hunching in pain over it.

It stings his throat and for a minute or so, Robb thinks he's died and came back to life to feel more pain in his gut.

Jon was right, he now reckons… He's going to give himself an ulcer if he keeps on a diet of uppers and downers.

He sits kneeling there for some time until it gets too cold, then cleans after himself and practically gulps the mouthwash from its plastic bottle when the doorbell rings. Hesitantly at first, then more and more insistent.

He frowns and has absolutely no idea who it might be, except probably Jon (but Jon never forgets stuff only to come back after it) or some of Jon's friends (but they meet at the library- that's what he overheard from Jon's conversation) or… His parents? No… he specifically said no parents, no siblings, especially Sansa and definitely not his uncle.

Also... no pets.

.

.

.

Curious and in less pain, Robb gets up, grabs a towel to have something to hold on and saunters towards the door. He wants to demonstrate prudence but recoils at the thought of being called paranoid by one of Jon's friends or his family, so he opens the door only to face nothing. He steps outside dressed only in his boxers and too pale to look as if he's not been on house arrest for the last 2 weeks. He steps cautiously, weary of the semi-dark corridor, and makes no sound as he passes the corner then bumps into someone. He collides and his teeth hit soft cotton fabric. Robb's too confused to put the pieces together and he wakes from his confusion only when he feels arms around him.

"Robb!"

And oh, it's Theon. Bloody Theon. _I missed you_ , he wants to utter but the words are stuck somewhere between his throat and his teeth making it very agonizing to hold it in and he only manages an indistinguishable grunt as he hugs back, not caring if he looks very much like a stray cat who's found someone to feed it. What's even more weird and embarrassing is that he starts to unconsciously nuzzle Theon's hair, trying in vain to mask his tears and his whimpers. Their difference in height dwarfs Theon shortly.

"You pity yourself too much, Robb Stark, if you think you should act like Grey Wind whenever he sees a piece of meat," Theon tries to joke at the frightening amount of PDA as he somehow manages to untangle his hands from the auburn curls.

Robb is too blissed out to reprimand that statement and just starts laughing a wet laugh, through all those tears.

"Woof!"

He's always been good at laughing at himself mostly because Theon's been a first-rate teacher when it came to that, for someone had to lighten the mood whenever Bran and Jon became too self absorbed and serious that they couldn't tell a joke from an affront.

Theon pretended not to laugh at that and just continued talking to him as if it wasn't a whole year of absence between them but only a cigarette break.

"And what kind of name is Grey Wind, I wonder? Some secret code of yours, eh?" He elbows him in the ribs playfully and only then he notices Robb's state of undress and general unkemptness.

"Robb… I didn't expect _this_ , but it's… very convincing that you missed me," Theon's eyes are full of myrth and his words are uttered in jest. "What did staying with Jon do to you? Ate all your food and took all your clothes? Typical of a bastard child, I told you!" 

"Oh shut up! I have exams; I don't have time to look in the mirror. I must study. I have five more books to read and… and…" He knew Theon was joking, because he would never think ill of Jon.

And he turns abruptly on Theon, beckons him without a further glance and invites him into the apartment, stepping carefully with his bare feet on the clean floor – Jon's doing, he's such a maid sometimes.

"Theon, don't mind me, you can explain this later. Now I have to take a shower. I am full of germs."

"Explain what?"

"Why you're here, of course!"

Robb sounds exasperated and his voice turns all whiny. He looks like a famished wolf, like one of those once cute and innocent pups the Starks have adopted, and there is this hectic look in his pretty blue eyes, a look that renders Theon's heart apart.

He barely makes it to the bathroom door and then has to help his friend up on his feet because he slipped and almost got himself a bruise on his arm as he tried to regain his balance. As the uninvited guest that he is, Theon just shrugs off his sneakers and drops his bag on the floor and follows him everywhere.

"Seven hells! What's wrong with you? I thought I was going through a hard time and here you are, the very image of acute suffering! What have you done to yourself, Robb?"

Robb grows more frustrated and the lack of sleep rears its ugly head. He almost shouts at Theon.

"I said I have finals!"

"Finals, huh? You'll pass, don't worry…"

Says the person who used to smoke weed for three semesters straight, then switched to alcohol.

Theon manages to help him in the bathtub after blocking the way to the shower and gaining an angry growl from Robb in the process. "No, you take a bath." He says decisively and then proceeds to fill it with barely bearable hot water for the redhead while with the other hand he rummages through a stand filled with bath products from which he picks something that looks to him like shower gel and just squeezes half of it into the rapidly increasing water.

At this, Robb jumps as if burned screaming at the top of his lungs "No hot water for me! No hot water for me!", adding with a weak, defeated voice that it makes him drowsy and that he has to study because he has to get top marks, because... Because… Well… he doesn't know either, but as Theon tries to find a sponge or a washcloth, Robb is merely mumbling, apparently unaware of his surroundings.

He only reacts when Theon opens another colorful recipient and a fresh smell of exotic fruits invades his nose.

"That's nice", he says as Theon gently rubs the skin on his tense shoulders. "Do that again!"

"Oh, you like that…" and Theon slurs a very guttural "It's nice" in Robb's ear making him shiver and sneeze because he's got foam on his face all of a sudden. Funny.

"Aye, I like that, my back hurt so much these last days."

So Theon continues driven by curiosity to open and pour more liquid and nice-smelling stuff in Robb's hair this time, making sure he gives a gentle squeeze to his tense shoulders. By the time the shampoo – which says it tames waves and frizzy hair- is lathered in Robb's reddish locks, Theon's out of his jeans, boxers and shirt and pushes unceremoniously for more space.

"Mate, you call this a tub?"

He squeezes behind Robb without a hint of discomfort at their sudden position and nakedness and instead of concealing the fact that he had to bare all, he pushes ungainly with his feet at Robb's wet boxers like it's the most natural thing.

"You're stark naked, Stark", he quips.

And what's really weird is that Robb complies and doesn't pay it much heed, just rests like a dying man on Theon's slender chest, making a passing remark at his lack of exercise. He's almost smiling when he manages to pull the words out of his numb mouth.

"You'll let those go to waste, girls won't fall for you that easily; he says as Theon wraps his head in a fluffy towel and prepares to rub the water out of the hair.

He chuckles, because girls haven't been on his mind lately.

"Aye, you have enough for two. Don't tell me you're now exercising compulsively."

Before any sort of self-consciousness settles in, Theon gets out of the tub, dries himself off with his shirt and gets out, leaving Robb enough room to stretch out his legs and dangle his arms with wet sounds.

"I know you haven't eaten anything", he says from the hallway as he wrapped the shirt over his nakedness.

Robb watches shamelessly, lackadaisically as Theon's lean back makes small indentations as he sways and flails his arms, a mockery of drying them up. It reminds him of Grey Wind. Somehow, he still thinks Theon is underfed and too careless. And now he braces himself as he knows Theon's going to make him an overdue breakfast.

"You still haven't answered my question", he shouts loud enough from the bathroom. He hears the fridge opening and theon cursing like a sailor.

"Which one? What was it again? The one where you ask me with puppy eyes whether I missed you or not? The answer is yes, I have missed you. Satisfied?"

Theon Greyjoy can see his face reflected in the bottles of milk. Later he realizes it's not even proper milk, but some soybean liquid. He tries too hard to be quip and seem nonchalant. For a minute, the mask slips.

"Do you wanna hear about southern chicks?"

That's a lie, bigger than Grey Wind's fur balls.

"No, Greyjoy, why are you here?"

"Am I not welcome?"

"You know you always are, even though you know my pre-exam terms."

"No visitors allowed. Yes, I remember now…"

He is smirking to himself and there is a fondness in his voice because he knows exactly how much this must cost Robb's tyrannical schedule. Might worsen it, actually. Or… and he's thinking with a puckered brow as he places some ingredients on the counter… it might be necessary to salvage him.

Clever remarks and befuddling tongue slips aside, Theon wants to make it better, wants to help, in a way only Robb can process. It will make Jon glare and curse at him, though.

"I came…" he makes a pause for emphasis. "Because… I… have to go back to Pyke."

"What? You could have at least called and told me that you leave for Pyke on that boat of yours! Last month you said you were at Casterly Rocks! Two months ago you said you were on the eastern coast!

"I have to go see my father. I've heard he's grown weak and old. My sister… my sister wrote to me a few weeks ago. I couldn't be reached; I was crossing the ocean at that time."

"But you don't even like your father! You should have thought of that when you decided to live on a boat!"

"It's a yacht, not just a boat, Robb", says Theon in mock indignation.

"Now, now… you'll tell me it's a kraken… Have you seen sirens yet, Theon? Don't tell me all that pot went to your head and fucked with your capacity to answer my questions..."

Robb cannot contain his smirk as he leaves the bathtub, splashing water everywhere, making a mental note that he'll clean that later.

"It  _is_  a fucking Kraken! That yacht belonged to my great-grand father and the old fart wanted to sell it to some other fart on the vintage market…"

"…and you saved it and restored it to its former glory… yeah… I know, I know, Theon." Robb is now in the hallway, a minuscule towel around his waist. He steps carefully.

The refrigerator's door was left wide open.

"There is nothing edible in here, Robb…"

Theon minds his own business, breaks a couple of eggs, beats them, adds milk - soymilk, beats them some more, sets the pan on the fire, adjusts the intensity then returns to stare back at the neatly placed contents in the fridge. Jon's work, most probably.

"Is Jon feeding you enough?"

There is a shelf full of sparkling clean casseroles filled with what looks like broccoli, broccoli and more broccoli.

"Is he feeding you rabbit food?"

He laughs so hard that he has to cling to the fridge's door not to fall.

"Jon doesn't have to feed me. I can take care of myself all right."

Robb gives him a serious look.

"No, he follows this diet…" and pauses because it sounds really ridiculous. "This diet where he alternates between protein and veggies…to gain muscle and… you know… Jon is Jon..."

Theon's smirk could outsmart the Cheshire cat's and he laughs and laughs and laughs because he cannot believe that Jon, girly Jon, Jon who's blushing whenever Theon talks about bedding wenches, Jon who pouts and who buys the saddest records of the decade, Jon who created a Wuthering Heights reading club along with his fatty friend… (and he looks in disbelief at Robb only to find him dead-serious again)… is now trying to prove he can be manly and intimidating by eating rabbit-food. If the dozens of bottles of fruity shampoo are any proof, Theon would have called him a girly-boy and Jon would have slammed the door to his room and moped for days avoiding him… but now…? Well… Now, Jon seems challenging. Seems interesting.

"I have to see that improbable change with my own eyes."

"You'll see him soon enough", replies Robb tiredly, pulling a chair from the table and Theon laughs some more when he's clearly discomfited when he cannot find a decent sitting position to prevent his nakedness from Theon's eyes. That towel sure is small.

"Aww… get over it, Robb. It's not as if I haven't seen your junk before," he motions to his crotch area and Robb huffs in annoyance.

"It's not like I want to be naked around you, Greyjoy. I just don't have anything clean to wear. Nothing." He looks ashamed as if he could have done something about it -well… he could have, but his pride was overshadowing his reason. "It's not as if I can wear a parka and my own bed sheets to breakfast or… brunch, whatever this is!"

Theon turns the omelet and places it neatly on a white plate along with a fork and a butter knife.

"Here, quench your hunger. I'll make some tea, if you tell me where I can find a kettle."

Robb resumes talking after he swallows the first bite, relishing in its taste.

"I think I have to change my bed sheets as well. Have to wash'em." He swallows again and he looks less manic, less starved. Less disheveled. He's quite a sight with his head wrapped up in cloth, with his glistening abs and that tiny, indecent towel wrapped around the V of his waist.

Theon finds the kettle, and soon there is boiling water and tea-bags. Black tea. That might be Jon's.

"Jon doesn't take well to coffee," Robb announces as Theon looks suspiciously at the closing expiration day on the tea pack.

"And neither should you," Theon murmurs.

"He bought that by accident. We… just kept it. For me, I mean… I need it. It helps me stay awake."

With the biggest smirk Robb's ever seen Theon wear, the Greyjoy simply throws the kettle's contents in the sink.

Theon looks excessively proud and his joy intensifies as he sees Robb's distressed stares, first at the kettle, then at the sink, then finally at Theon himself.

"I'll put you to bed. When I first saw you, you looked like something Grey Wind would have regurgitated. At least we got rid of the scruff… and now… you go to sleep."

"But I am thirsty!"

Robb knows he's playing the emotional blackmail card with the least expected person in the world, Theon fucking Greyjoy, and frowns at his own stupidity when Theon's eyebrows curves in ridicule. He's once again his old, laid-back self.

"You're right," he snaps back. "I should have called you."

"We haven't talked in three fucking months and texting doesn't count, it's like the lowest form of communication."

"Yeah, well look… I am sorry but I don't regret coming here. You should have seen yourself in the hallway. You need someone to look after you. I told you, they're just exams, you'll pass and next year, when you graduate we'll travel the world together."

It seems like a childish dream but Theon is all very serious. He watches with attentiveness, entranced, as the Stark boy finishes his omelet, takes his plate and places it in the sink.

"…And where is the protein Jon stores in the fridge?" 

He's adamant on making something consistent for Robb to put in his stomach and he cannot see anything besides more casseroles of broccoli, wheat, beans and carrots, the eggs are gone and… more empty space.

"Oh… this is veggie week."

Well… that explains a lot of things.

When Robb's books lie nicely on his now orderly desk and Robb lies unaware of the rest of the world in his bed breathing deeply, Theon unpacks his stuff in the hallway, cleans the wet marks on the floor that he left, charges his phone and gathers a mountain of Robb's dirty clothes to put in the washing machine. When he declares he's bored out of his fucking mind, he mentally debates between raiding Jon's room and watching TV but before his hand even touches the doorknob, the main door opens and Jon, the devil himself, appears.

His expression reads shock and disbelief, and then a frown confirms that he connected the dots and now watches Theon suspiciously.

"That's the wrong room you want to be in," he remarks. Very unkindly, even.

Theon shrugs it off and without a trace of intimidation quirks his lips in his trademark expression reserved only for Jon Snow, a mixture between a pout and a grossed-out lip curl, while his eyebrows knit theatrically. It's all about the drama.

"I didn't know that bastards were allowed to be uncivil, Jon. I wanted to take a nap. Robb's fast asleep, and if you dare disturb him with your whiny bastard voice, then you'll feel the Greyjoy wrath come upon you."

"Oh, I've read enough melodramas, please… don't even try to come across as witty, Greyjoy! You'll only embarrass yourself." He moves further as he speaks, apparently not minding Theon and turning his back to him.

Yeah, you do that, little wolfling, try and prove you've manned up since we've last seen each other. The words remain unspoken, though… Theon knows his game and he's very good at it. Annoying Jon Snow into submission is his favorite pastime.

"After all… you look unemployed and I can't even remember if I attended your graduation."

"That's because I didn't invite you, Snow," and Theon knows he's gained more ground. "And it's called marine biology research what I'm doing and I'm as high on the academic ranking as you'll never get. Call me when you can pay rent from your job at the café."

Jon's seething and he's all on display for Theon to see how he's grown, how beautiful his hair touches his chin, how his pouty mouth seems inviting enough to kiss with a fist. Oh, and he has filled in nicely.

He looks him up and down appreciatively and Jon notices, embarrassment clearly written on his face. His cheeks are peony red. He's squeamish. For a moment he finds it cute, adorable.

"I was going to wash these," he gestures to the huge pile of clothes and bed sheets that lie dumped in a faraway corner of the hallway.

Jon's suspicion grows and then, after Theon's expression doesn't change from his funny self to something else, he gives in and gets the message.

"Yeah, sure… I'll help you. For Robb."

"Aww… when would you stop seeing me as an intruder and accept me into your pack?"

"Seriously… I don't understand what he sees in you!"

"Everything you'll never be, Snow!" he retorts in due time to match the seriousness of what that implies. Jon is a good boy and helps him sort the sheets but when it comes to Robb's piles of boxers and socks, he just can't do it.

"You do it, you've always been sniffing each other's underwear."

And Theon smirks, because, oh my… Jon "Ned Stark's bastard" Snow is jealous. He grabs the boxers and flings them in front of Jon. He knows that's cruel and disgusting to some point, but he kind of likes the feel of the soft fabric.

"This is good material, Jon. I wonder what you're wearing. That jock-strap spandex stuff again?"

The remark is wounding especially since it adds to the history of rivalry between Greyjoy and Snow ever since Theon came uninvited in Jon's room only to extract from his laundry the most hilarious piece of underwear ever created.

"Then what the fuck are you wearing, Greyjoy? A skirt?" Jon knows how the comments directed at questioning Theon's masculinity always hit bull's-eye.

"That's because I don't have a pussy like you do, Snow," and it's surprising how he lowers his voice to a hiss. "Robb needs to sleep, keep it down."

He pushes the start button and measures two cups of detergent and more flower-smelling fabric-softener, only to have Jon peer over his shoulder.

"Be careful with that, it's expensive and it's mine!" He does a silent version of a shout and hands him the other recipient. It's blue and says in bold letters Ocean Escape and Theon can't help smiling to himself at dear old Robb. Ocean Vibe, how sweet.

"You try too hard, Snow… all these floral smelling detergents betray you."

"Fine, do what you have to do but don't make any noise."

"Sure."

He busies himself with sorting the colors and looking for a place to hang them to dry. He never thought of doing this for anyone before, but this is Robb, and Robb always matters.

_We're brothers, always and forever…_

.

.

.

It's dark. His eyes open slowly and his mind feels fuzzy, just like a cotton ball. There's the most comforting sound coming from the hallway and for a while he just listens in. The washing machine was turned on at some point. On the nightstand the digital clock changes his color again, from neon green to neon blue. It's 3:04 A.M. and now he knows he must have slept through the day. He vaguely remembers Theon coming to his room and making sure he's all tucked in, bringing him later a glass of water Robb remembers drinking with his eyes closed and drying his hair with a soft towel.

He's pretty recovered and wonders what Theon has been doing. It never seemed so easy in the past two weeks to get out of bed and feel this good. There's a pile of neatly stacked clothes in his cupboard, the crisp smell of detergent quite pleasant and even though he doesn't realize it, he's got a pleased look in his eyes. All the way to the bathroom he doesn't hear a sound.

It's so dark and quiet that he can hear himself exhale. It's weird because in all that darkness, just as he passes the corner there is light under Jon's bedroom and he swears he's heard a the bed creak.

However he doesn't forget just how much Jon hates to be disturbed in his own room, mostly because Robb is aware of the fact that he's a night owl, he burns the midnight oil if it takes him where it should. On his way back, though, he decides that wandering through the house isn't such a bad idea when all that you need to fall asleep is a little stroll.

He searches for food and for Theon and his heart swells, ready to burst when he finds the groceries on the table and several new casseroles on a shelf in the fridge. They vary in size and somehow, Theon managed to tag them with his name written in permanent black marker. "ROBB 1", "ROBB 2", "ROBB 3" and "ROBB 4" greet him. This feels like home, and there's an assured, warm feeling humming in his chest. It's an act of overdue kindness, not a favor. They haven't seen each other in months and whenever he received a text from Theon, he lost all his composure, either by worrying too much and blaming the sea for her insidious charms or by getting lost in terrible bouts of anger. He checks the casserole again – they're filled with food: chicken, pasta, green beans, more meat- and on the counter there lie fruit and little snacks, jars of honey and jam. He knows that somehow this is Theon's way of saying I'm sorry for coming in uninvited.

He'll probably never hear it from his lips, Robb thinks. And he is right. Theon has strange ways of apologizing, as strange as the sea and islands he's from.

He finds him curled into himself, resembling very much a cat, small on the battered couch, probably numbed with cold. Theon is fast asleep, his breathing shallow and feathery. There is no sound to reach his ears. Sometimes he wishes he would plague his ears with snores and other embarrassing noises but Theon pretty much resembles a dead person when sleeping, which scares him.

He brings him a blanket, tucks him in and his form relaxes as he shallowly embraces him, brotherly. There is little space on the couch, but Robb indulges in sneaking next to the other and it's moments like these that even the thick tomes referring to the Athenian democracy or the Dark Ages wars fade from his mind. They barely fit onto the couch, but as their warmth coalesce, Robb falls asleep.

.

.

.

Theon won the bet so Jon has to carry the bags from the supermarket. He's made sure that the bastard pays for his own stuff because his wallet feels lighter after he came back from Casterly Rocks.

"What's wrong Greyjoy? Partied too hard with the Lannisters?"

And now it's Theon's turn to stay quiet. He's gotten into some violent fights with the least expected people, mostly because Lannisters always pay their debts.

"The Lannisters are… fucked up, man." He still remembers seeing Jamie and Cersei in the garden after the party. It made him doubt Joffrey's paternity, but then… that kid has always been a burgeoning psychopath.

"If I were you, I'd tell Sansa to stop dreaming about that little shit Joffrey," he says grimly. "That kid's fucked up in the head. I've seen him do horrible things."

Jon says nothing. He just heads to the car and puts the groceries on the backseat.

"I haven't seen Sansa since Christmas. Catelyn… she… doesn't want me there." It's a heavy subject for Jon. Catelyn refused to adopt him and despised him ever since he was brought by Ned Stark in their house in Winterfell. That explained Jon's aloof attitude towards women in general. He never knew his mother and Ned never talked about her. He never made a promise of letting him know and Jon stopped asking a while ago.

They drove in silence and Theon fumbled with the radio to find it useless to alleviate the tension.

"So… how's life?"

There was no answer from Jon, just a scoff and a sad look in his eyes.

"Life's good. I mean, I'm a bastard, so I'm not having a rough time trying to have perfect results and play the good son."

He makes a slight pause to turn left and resumes talking about his new job, not a café, like the last one, his mates (Theon remembers fat Sam, who's funny and smart if you get over his virgin aura), his gym endeavors ( why does he even need it? Theon cannot understand) and then they talk about Robb, because it's why Theon's here, doing what he's doing.

"You really care for him, I know that." He speaks in a resigned tone and the fact is confirmed by the fact that Theon goes straight into Robb's room to check up on him. Typical.

Jon keeps silent for the rest of the ride. He's worrying his lips until they're red and Theon knows he's deep in thoughts about the past. Too far away to bother with his stupid remarks.

.

.

.

This kind of affection he sees Theon show towards Robb destabilizes him, torments him. Saddens him. He misses their holidays when he's away from the boarding school and finally meets Robb and Arya and even Sansa. There's always Theon and for some reason he complains to his father that Theon's been stealing Robb from him since middle-school started.

The Wall is a lonely place for lonely boys that nobody wants and Jon makes enemies as fast as he makes friends. There's Pyp, who once hated him and there's Samwell, who's well-read and more intellectually-driven than any of them. There's sports and teachers he likes, like Aemon Targaryen. However, most people ignore him. Here, at the Wall, he's nothing, and only with Sam's help he can cope with the tedious lessons told by ancient relics. There are only men. It's weird and he cannot stop thinking of this girl's legs from the bus. She smiled at him but he didn't know what to do.

When he sees Sansa that summer, she's with Jeyne Poole and the Lannister daughter, Myrcella, talking in hushed tones and snickering whenever they pass him by. His cheeks flush up.

It's awkward, to say the least.

And when he's back to school, there's Ygritte, cool skin, red hair, wild looking and gorgeous. Jon ran away with her, received a month of detention but lost his virginity and gained his first love.

"You know nothing, Jon Snow," she insists.

She's a girl from the village and she's brave and alive and he's lost, because when he graduates, he expects them to be together, but she disappears the day before. He's never heard of her since then.

And yes, it's sad.

When he lets himself fall into the abyss of pleasure he chooses differently.

There's Satin Flowers, known as  _the slut_  at the Wall High. He's dark haired, beautiful and younger than Jon. He's a boy of 15, wears these boyish Victorian shorts that make his buttocks look round and ready for a spank and he sucks cock as if made for it. The day of their graduation Jon gets drunk, wallows in self pity and tries to look for Ygritte. He realizes that he knows nothing. Not even her last name, not her favorite music, not her favorite book, not even her birthday. He knows her body in and out and when Grenn slips the vodka bottle in their room, he remembers her mouth on him and goes to Satin, because he's too drunk and has to forget.

Satin is nice. He's always wanted him and accepts the invitation with eagerness and even says this thing that pushes him over the edge.

"Come for me, Jon."

And he's faraway gone into an ocean of white. It's easier with Satin because he doesn't ask him to stay after they've fucked; he just takes a shower and leaves.

Jon wants it to be as different from his time with Ygritte as possible. With Ygritte it was painfully memorable and too beautiful to describe. They're always in the forest because girls are not allowed at the Wall, or in the garden shed, because somehow she has the keys. With Satin, he's confronted with questions about his own confused sexuality, with new things to learn and Jon knows he has to keep the secret.

He meets Satin in the village after his admissions results. Catelyn wants him out of the house and he needs an excuse to visit the Wall and greet the younger boy. He's hopeful and his eyes look big and innocent like a doe's.

Later that day, he chides himself.

He falls too easily.

.

.

.

This time, Theon lies sprawled on Jon's bed. He's rambling about sailing boats and whales and Jon admits he finds it a little boring. His room is filled with band posters and he knows that it must look pretty immature to Theon who's older, makes more money and has bedded more women than he'll ever have. He'll agree with that. Theon lazily takes of his sneakers, makes himself comfortable and drowsily asks for entertainment. Although he too has finals, Jon knows that average grades will do with his father and Catelyn simply doesn't care.

He tries very hard to pry him out of bed and push him out of the door to the living room, where Theon, selfishly, occupies the entire sofa. His feet are dangling, almost touching his shoulder and for a while he doesn't mind, because he's too preoccupied reciting movie names.

"Whatever's fine, man," replies Theon. "But please, no movies for pussies. I don't watch movies for pussies."

He's pretty drunk, Jon figures. Wherever Theon went, alcohol followed, and this time it was Jim Beam, straight from his travelling bag-"You know, a present for you two."

"We don't drink during finals," he commented dourly, but he took a swig and thought as it burned his throat that Robb wasn't going to miss this souvenir.

By the time the movie begins – a B French flick inspired by one of the novels they studied in class, Jon's back aches, he's twisting and turning and Theon's feet push too hard at the back of his head.

He's doing it on purpose.

"Oh, stop it, will you?"

Then, Theon surprises him by making enough room for him on the couch and half an hour later he finds himself sniffing the woodsy scent of Theon's cologne as his head lies unabashedly on his shoulder. If Greyjoy minds, he doesn't show it.

In the faint light of the ever changing movements on the screen, Theon looks handsome, dark hair growing past the nape of his neck, stubble on his chin, sly smirk at rest. Jon cannot admit that he is jealous. Jealous of this man who unexpectedly came into their lives and made Robb his friend, made sure Robb always came back to him. It made Jon covetous and the simmering rage that governed almost all his years at the boarding school suddenly resurfaced.

By the end of the first hour, though, Jon leans so much into his body that he can feel his warmth and heartbeat. His thigh rubs gently over Theon's, creating an electrifying friction and by the time the film gets really boring and predictable, he finds himself sporting an erection that's threatening to give him away. Greyjoy looks adamantly at the screen, serious, but doesn't move, and for the last 30 minutes of the flick, he seems unfazed by Jon's pliable body, hot and trembling at his side.

Jon grows more insistent. It's his bastard nature, lusty and shameful that pushes him to do the wildest things.

However, the end credits find them in a tangle on the couch, Greyjoy in a supine position, raising his hips to meet Jon's. His search is wanton but hesitant, unlike Jon's who seems desperate, ready to spend all over his jeans.

Their hands travel all over each other's bodies and after a worthwhile struggle, Jon has him pinned down, straddling his hips with his own. He's strong, heavy, unrelenting and aggressive enough to have Theon try and push him off of him. He grabs his thin, slender arms and pushes them above Theon's head while devouring his mouth and his neck. When he's all slack and compliant, another strong, firm hand travels to his navel, sneaking under the loose material and the waistband of his boxers. Theon's breath hitches in turn and by this time, he's kissing messily, all teeth and stubble, lost in that sensation. He cannot think of anything, he's so wound up. Jon's hips move on his own and his hands grab at Theon's sides.

Jon finds him fragile in that moment, jeans hanging loose, skinny ribs showing from under his disheveled shirt, his eyes bearing a tormented glaze to them, his cat-like teeth biting his lower lip. He's trembling and uncertain, so small and unfocused, taking into account the four years that separate them. When his free hand, shrewd enough, pulls the fabric down with hurried force and curl around his erection, Theon suddenly whimpers as if fighting a battle for self-control.

Jon's the first to lose his clothes and only then he lets go of his hands. There's a feral look in his eyes, like molten tar and Theon knows this has to slow down, at least on his part. He draws away from his best friend's half-brother's touch and looks stunned when Jon goes after him.

"Stop! Stop!" he half whispers, half screams.

The words sink later in Jon's feverish brain and he looks at Theon disbelievingly.

"I'll take care of you," he gestures to Jon's purplish cock and his eyes are distressed, his face severe.

He takes it into his hand, warily. Jon suspects he's never done this before and almost snorts, but he's fallen too deep into the chase for pleasure so instead, he lets out a moan of delight when unskilled, slender fingers smear pre-cum all over the head of his cock.

He focuses too hard on that sensitive spot. He tries not to come.

"Afraid you'll like it, Greyjoy? Never thought you were a virgin."

Jon smirks victoriously as Theon diversifies his ministrations and there's an erection poking his leg.

"That must be distracting, isn't it?" Theon has a small tent forming steadily in his jeans.

"SHUT UP!"

Theon hisses not because Jon's annoying power-games annoy him but because Jon's voice reverberates in his ears, making this too real for his liking.

"What?" Jon whispers. "Afraid he'll hear us?" And Theon wants to reply that this is nothing, because there is no "us" between him and the bastard, but he gives in when Jon helps him release his own cock.

It's not what Ironborn do, giving in that easily and Theon says to himself that he'll get to him, but the bastard swats his hand and takes him into his mouth, greedily. What makes him melt into the touch is the steady look he gives him, and his fingers grasp out of their own volition at the black, thick curls. They're rich like wool, luxurious… no wonder he invests so much in fruity shampoos. He wants to laugh his private joke but what gets out is a pathetic, wanton gasp.

He mewls and whimpers and he never thought his cheeks can burn like that. Jon sucks him viciously and it's surprisingly different from a girl's touch. He's also less innocent than the last time he's seen him.

"Where'd you learn that?" He mutters between Jon's wet, sensuous suctions.

With an obscenely loud pop, Jon takes his mouth off of him and simply answers:

"Boarding school."

And Theon laughs and comes and laughs and comes straight on Jon Snow's face and parted lips.

He thinks that the boys at the Wall have taught him valuable lessons indeed. It's ridiculous, because in that instant he forgets all their rivalry and is so happy that he doesn't even need to be asked to return the favor. Theon does so of his own volition. Jon's all silent whispers, his plump lips barely keeping all delicious and obscene sounds of pleasure and barely contained excitement, his hands twist into his locks painfully and pull him choking into his rough, curly pubes.

.

.

.

After their little debauched session, Theon has a whole new perspective of the world: Jon's semen tastes strangely bitter, is dense and his member feels thick and sturdy in his mouth. He makes a mess of himself, chokes and spits, coughs several times, his eyes tear, but he doesn't give up. After they finish, they part casually without any promise of a next time, there is no shame and definitely no hard feelings.

He doesn't expect Jon to offer him a toothbrush and a pillow. He looks childishly sleepy as he rubs his eyes in his checkered pajamas. He cannot even laugh at how funny it is and decides to sleep where they've made each other cum, instead of the spare room. When he squirms for a while, he notes clinically that his jaw hurts.

Only later, when he feels a hand on his shoulder, cradling it protectively, does realization sink in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb has exams, Jon and Theon use the time efficiently. Again, BJs happen and Theon discovers Jon's love for dirty talk. With his mouth busy, it's not hard to forget about his more-than brotherly feelings for Robb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Thehairshirt for taking time and helping me out! You are a wonderful beta and I do not mind nitpicking!  
> Also, Neliore... is this good enough, porn-wise?

There’s cereal and milk on the counter and the kitchen is tidy and sunny. He stays. He stays because Robb asks him and because he doesn’t know what to do. He cannot face Balon and Asha and a long string of uncles that despise him. Not yet, he tells to himself.

He truly feels like Balon’s son, as he tries to avoid Robb’s blue gaze whenever they’re too close. He managed the appropriation by himself, he’s a deceiver, a fucking coward.

For the first time he feels blatantly blackmailed by Robb’s puppy stare. He’s like Grey Wind in some aspects. Out of guilt, he goes along with it.  _How egoistical of me_ , he thinks. Robb started relaxing into his presence, finished his books and now he attaches to him like ivy on a pole. It’s frustrating and unnerving, especially with Jon’s unreadable stares from behind his curly locks. He feels trapped. And Jon is staring at him relentlessly. It won’t take long until he catches up with what really motivates Theon. There’s this kingly aura around Robb that makes it hard for Theon to look away. Whenever he touches him, even though by accident, he lingers, his skin warming up and catching fire. He’s so attracted to it, like a moth to a flame.

Jon notices it every time and keeps silent.

It’s either their thighs that touch when Robb sits too close on the couch, a brush at the nape of his neck when Robb ruffles his hair, or brief skin on skin contact during dinner, when he passes the salt. He’s strung out. His mind is reeling every time it happens, as if opening a wound over and over again.

Jon is unyielding, in exchange. He doesn’t talk to him around Robb, he looks ashamed, somehow. So Theon does what he knows best. He pretends that what happens between them almost every night is nothing. Perhaps it’s nothing. Jon hesitates every time and he accepts it. For Theon that is enough. Those hands, rough on him, that mouth sucking on his lips, biting with teeth so white and sharp, until Jon grunts and attacks his neck, then trails a wet line to his navel only to wake him up from his fantasy. Jon’s like a wolf, playing with the prey.

  _Look at me, Theon, look what I’m doing to you_.

 Theon cannot lie to himself, because this isn’t Robb who’s biting and kissing and making him come undone so gloriously. It’s Jon, the bastard. He suspects Jon knows already. It’s his very mind that betrays him, uncontrollable, every time he touches Robb by accident… or is it intentional?

What's worse, Theon guesses, is that Jon suspects it and… revels in the irony. Like today, for example. He sits opposite them at the table. Sullen and quiet, his delicious mouth pursed shut. Robb is comfortable and touches Theon’s hand deliberately, like they did when they were children.

"…so after I finish with this, we have to celebrate."

He’s already thinking of celebration and still has several exams to sit. Jon frowns, then gives Theon that unreadable stare of his, piercing deep into his soul, and Theon swears there’s ice trailing down his spine as the bastard glowers into his spoon. He’s thoughtful and doesn’t try too hard to hide his displeasure.

"I’ll still have to go back to Pyke, though, Robb."

He's sure Robb will ask to be taken with him. It’s a journey, a beautiful and special adventure.

"I’ll have to come with you, then." Of course, as expected from Robb. "And you’ll teach me how to navigate and…"

His sky blue eyes are alight with glee and Theon could swear that he radiates, just like some promised god amongst men. He’s perfection and his weaknesses, though few, are endearing and make him even more special, Catelyn’s golden boy. He’s just someone’s little boy, so precious, so adored.He never stopped thinking about Catelyn’s protectiveness since they were little kids playing in the garden, Theon as a ward, Robb as the family’s little prince.

"I want to come as well," says Jon suddenly.

 And Theon’s mouth goes slack, porridge forgotten somewhere in between his lips and the spoon, because Jon’s eyes flicker and he looks like a child, eyes dark rimmed and forlorn, sad even. The same child from when they were little, always vying for the attention and never getting enough. The flicker in his steely grey eyes pleads and threatens at the same time. His lower lip settles into a pout and Theon thinks he hates him for not answering.

This time he hides his hurt well and although his tone doesn’t expressly asks not to be left out, it commands instead. At that point, Theon suspects Jon’s cup might be already too full from so many unshed tears since childhood. He nods, faking a smile yet terrified by the interruption. He should have known better since he sucked his cock last night and went through his moans with a hand between his legs, pulling hurriedly at his flesh.

"Yes, you should both come. Yes…" He finally speaks. And he is a liar, a coward, a deceitful little bitch, untrue to his feelings, because his heart says otherwise.

Robb is smiling heartily, as if it’s great that Theon has just promised he’ll take both brothers on his yacht. He doesn’t know… doesn’t know a thing.

 Jon’s stare intensifies. There’s this darkness beyond night that’s ready to burst out, and for a second he thinks why he might subject Theon to it. It’s so raw… and heartrending, because Jon’s jealous. Theon’s tongue-tied instead.

They eat in silence, each one of them with their private thoughts. Robb with his book next to his bowl, skimming over some details, Jon remains bowed over his insubstantial breakfast of fruits and veggies, not making a sound and Theon… Theon thinks in horror of the consequences.

.

.

.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" Jon silently approaches and his voice seems devoid of all kindness, uncertain whether to cut or to flay at the layers of deceit. "When are we going to tell him?" He places his plate in the sink, as if Theon’s only reason to be there, with them, the brothers (half-brothers, he chides), is to clean after them and make sure they eat and drink and sleep and fuck.

 How could he tell this to Robb?  

As if telling anything to Robb would make him understand and see reason. Look, Robb… Jon and I have been giving each other head for the past days. We’ve been fooling around, but it’s not like you’ll be upset or anything. Not as if the stares you give, the way you always touch and cling to me, mean anything, you should know. We’ll soon fuck like rabbits in the room next to yours and when your name slips (accidentally) from my mouth when Jon ravishes me, it’s not that I have feelings for you, but that the bastards loves playing these games, so don’t be embarrassed, please.

_Please… forget you might develop feelings for me, your childhood friend. I am unworthy._

His breath is raspy. There’s this strange ringing that threatens with the approaching vertigo. He cannot faint now, cannot.

 Instead, he manages a weak “ _We’ll talk tonight_ ”, as if postponing the inevitable is going to make it all better.

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.

.

Needless to say, it happens again. Where Jon is demanding, strong and rough, Theon is accepting, pliable, yielding, as if that would make him less complicit. His passivity translates in his body language, gauging more pressure from the bastard as they become erratic, irresponsible, their voices less whispery and more audible. Jon is like a wolf, possessive, he sometimes bites him, and Theon has to bury his pleasure mixed with pain into his shoulder, not daring sinking his teeth, not knowing that this is what the bastard wants, this is what he’s pushing him to do. He wants Theon to respond with the same intensity, captivated only by his fire. What Theon doesn’t know, is that Jon’s got him by the leash.

At night they play games… Jon dictates and Theon obeys. Jon’s so desperate to make a connection, to leave a mark, as if one day, when the Starks turn their backs on him, at least Theon will be there to remember him with his body.

He always ends loving it in the end. The painful stretch, the bites, Jon’s grunts, his tongue, his voice reminding Theon that he’ll never have the upper hand. He manages to mask the fact that above everything else, he feels sorry for Jon. In the morning it is Theon’s turn to pretend, to act nonchalant, to cover the guilt raising in his chest and delude himself that he’s the one in control.

Jon Snow knows better, though.

The fourth night, as Theon finally manages to get some rest in the spare room, he’s startled by the weight of a hand on his chest. Jon. He’s smiling.

"Why haven’t you come? I’ve been waiting for you."

He sounds too hopeful for Theon’s liking. Too sure about  _this_ , about what they’re doing, too cocky. He’s certain now. This cannot go on, because Jon only takes, knowing very well what Theon’s been dreaming about. 

"I shouldn’t be here, doing this..." he says instead, weakly, wearily, as if he needs to catch up on his sleep. He does worry about Robb seeing, hearing, suspecting. Jon always reassures him, that he’s knocked out, too tired to even open his eyes.

When the bastard takes him roughly by the chin, hands too sure about what they’re about to do, Theon guesses he’s already in too deep, that there’s no going back. He reaches for him, exhausted, too much of a coward to tell him to back off, and Jon leans in, welcoming the touch as if that’s what makes him feel special, feel welcome – Theon’s hands everywhere. 

"Is there anything I should know about?" Jon asks, words coming out of his mouth uselessly, muffled by Theon’s chaffed, reddened lips. He just wants to get lost in the sensation, in Jon’s slow movements, just wants to grab his hips and grind them into his and end this incandescence that consumes them both.

Perhaps thinking of Robb in his bed, sleeping peacefully, trustingly might help getting this over with. Yes, he tries to think of Robb, of how his curls catch fire as he threads his fingers through them.

He knows how to dream with his eyes open and how to camouflage what Jon may think it’s a promise or a sign of surrender. He’s done it all his life. He’s too good at it. Passively, he lets him do his worst because he wants it, not because he cannot take responsibility for his own desire. Somehow, this makes Jon’s long accumulated sorrow at how much of an unwanted child he was, to dissipate in the agony of lust, because Theon’s skilled at that as well. So he tries to ride the wave, then grabs him by the shoulders, switches their positions and kisses him everywhere, not gently at all. He can be active as well, he will demonstrate to Jon.

The bastard whispers his _yeses_ and his _pleases_ and Theon looks just like the maiden ravished by a wolf. He thinks this is it; this is how he finally got Theon. It’s his toy now. But he is wrong, because Theon has no allegiance where the matters of the flesh are concerned.

.

.

.

Robb is jittery the morning of the exam, the first one of a long list and while Theon’s pretty sure that the improvements he’s tried to bring into his life have somehow appeased his anxiety, Robb’s still the same control freak, perfectionist asshole whenever he feels doubt creeping in. In some aspects, Robb’s always going to be his mother’s son, always diverting her calls but messaging her soon after he’s made up his mind.

When Robb closes the door behind him, after five more minutes of freaking out in panick, Theon finally exhales with relief. It attracts Jon who clings to his hips immediately.

"Finally, we’re alone," he almost drawls, tongue laving dutifully at Theon’s pulse. He feels Jon through his jeans, already hard and needy.

"I was thinking on catching up on my sleep," Theon says in response to Jon’s erotic display.

Maybe he really needs sleep, because usually Jon keeps him awake until the vey dawn, his fingers buried deep inside him, making him squirm and pant and groan until all the shame evaporates and he begs him to take him, to be done already. Jon’s fingers curl slowly, then, as if in defiance stroke the spot inside him, right behind his cock and Theon swears he’s seen galaxies open up to fire. The things he might do to him are only whispered, deliriously by a moist mouth, interrupted only by gulps of air, but the fingers are never to be replaced by his hard, aching cock. He fingers  and stretches him mercilessly and Theon bites on the pillow. He kills him with kindness until Theon just pleads and moans and tries to grab for Jon’s throbbing cock because he’s ready. Or so he thinks, but Jon never goes further than that. 

Today it’s different, though. Jon smirks as if he’s been waiting for this to happen all week long. He takes his time whispering in Theon’s ear as he embraces him there, in the cold hallway.

 "I want to fuck you, I’ve been waiting to fuck you all week." He pushes his hardness roughly into Theon’s and grinds their arousals separated only by the fabric of their clothes."I want to fuck you so hard, bury my cock in your ass until you cry out for more. I’ll screw you until you cannot walk straight for days and when dear Robb asks you why, you’ll just get hard because you’ll remember…"

He pins him to the wall, and pushes into Theon’s lean frame, the brutality of the movement enough to make the other worry that just for once he’ll have to ask Jon to be gentler.

"… oh you’ll remember, won’t you? And do as I’ll command you…"

Theon knows that he has to play along, mostly because the talk arouses him, makes him dizzy and heady with what’s next to come but also because he has to placate Jon’s unrestrained urge to fuck him. He sure wanted it all week, but never got it.

He smirks when he hears the tone and the words… It arouses him to no end.

"I’ll make sure I do, and I’ll think of your cock inside me, of your hands on my cock, as you order me to spread wider." It’s sufficient to make Jon moan in approval as he pushes one more time into Theon’s thigh before nudging him to his room.

That seems to be Jon’s soft spot. He wants to be obeyed, he wants control, he wants to be everything and enough, irreplaceable. Jon sure has a shitload of insecurities to go that far, but as long as Theon enjoys it, he’s going to go with the flow.

"You dirty slut! Go to my room, I want to find you naked and spread when I come back, ready for my cock. Or else... sweet Robb might not sleep tonight."

Theon tries to ignore the threat laced into such arousing words and just pushes past Jon’s arm, still cocky, still his confident self. He tries to ignore how laughable this is, because Jon’s never had authority over him, Jon’s always been the one to give in.

"Don’t tell me you abstained out of consideration for Robb," Theon retorts cheekily, knowing very well Jon always keeps his promises.

Instead, Jon gives him a dark look and just pushes him roughly in the direction he wants.

 _Oh, he wants to pretend he’s all rough and manly, the arrogant bastard_. Theon rolls the dice. He has enough time to decide. Jon looks delicious when he’s all worked up.

"Cock-sucking sluts don’t talk back to me, Greyjoy. Talk back again and I’ll give you something to choke onto."

Theon just frowns and manages to plaster that nonchalant, always amused look on his face. Inside Jon’s room, which appears strangely impersonal even with the old posters and the uncanny decorations, Theon tries to make himself comfortable but fails because he surrenders to the jittery feeling of anticipation. He feels the pulse in his ears, surrounding him like one of Jon’s precious music records. He tries to unbutton his faded jeans but his fingers are made of butter, he barely feels them. Inside his head, a voice whispers that finally, this is happening. And although the certainty of it happening takes the edge off, Theon cannot stop thinking that it shouldn’t be Jon.

There is this photograph of the three of them at the infamous Stark Sunday barbecue. It’s ridiculous how much they've matured since then. Jon from the photograph, only 15, points timidly at his apron, while Theon gives him the bunny ears, a smug smile on his face.

What’s making the task of undressing so bloody difficult it’s Robb’s smiling face staring back at him. He refrained from what Catelyn considered immature behavior and simply smiled at the camera. He can’t stand it. It hurts so much, even betraying something that has never started. He decides upon removing his shirt and imagines Robb’s eyes trailing down his navel. He cannot stand it at all, although he tries.

He isn’t even hard anymore. He doesn’t even know whether he can do this. He’ll leave it to Jon, whose mouth is delicious, pouty and cruel and could wake the dead with the wonders it performs. Those Stark blue eyes from the photograph look right at him.

.

.

.

"I told you to be naked and spread on my bed, you pretty little slut."

Jon’s voice has an angry tinge to it. It means nothing to Theon because what can the bastard do when faced with Theon fucking Greyjoy, master of indecent behavior? He wants to give him a nasty reply about how he’s not "little", although "pretty" and "a slut" he may be. He bites his lips to prevent the nasty words to come out. Theon knows that as much as Jon wants to fuck the Greyjoy ward (he’s always called him that as soon as he was old enough to understand contempt), that  wouldn’t turn him into a Stark. Theon knows, however, that this is the ridiculous side of Jon, the angry, always left-out at the dinner-table Jon.

He is so nervous he finds it amusing. 

"Or else… what?" Theon continues the phrase for him. "What will you do? Fuck me? Make me beg for forgiveness? Make me scream how sorry I am for taking it out on you, for bullying you, for laughing at you when we were just some stupid kids?" He wants Jon to admit to it, wants him to get over it already… this stupid feud for Robb’s attention, for the Stark’s attention. For Cat’s attention.

He to threw the shirt behind him and turned to his left to face Jon whose sullen eyes pierce his form.

"Fine… I’ll apologize, if that’s what you want."

Jon doesn’t say anything but looks at him as if he’s grown a second head. Theon is dead serious. He realizes that Jon’s shocked face beats his disgusted face any day. Hell, Theon even wants to tell him about what a turn-off he can be when he gets serious.

"First I want you to put that away," Theon motions to the set of framed photographs. "I don’t want the Starks to see my dick."

And Jon guffaws, because really, that’s enough to break the false and stern air he tries to adopt whenever it concerns Theon, the ward, the one that came into the family too late but managed to steal Robb from him.

"Fine," he murmurs, and those pretty lips of his purse in such a savory manner that Theon’s cock surges to life in that very moment. He’d gladly fuck the friendly, tolerant Jon anytime. "but you still didn’t listen to what I was saying earlier and I don’t know whether I should forgive you for that."

There’s a strange glint in his dark grey eyes when he says the words that Theon really starts to think that he’s always wanted to see him like this, open and unconcerned with appearances. He turns to him with the sleaziest smile on his lips, eyes playful and glimmering.

Yeah, maybe he’ll allow the bastard some illusion of control. Not out of pity, but just to see him relaxed and warm and so open with his desires that he can trust Theon again.

"Please, allow me to make it up to you," he gestures to the bulge in his pants, "Oh, Lord Commander Jon Snow?"

Theon knows that the tone alone is enough to make Jon laugh hard enough to lose his balance.

 "Lord Commander? Theon, I never took you for the respectful one, although I admit… I…"

"You like it don’t you, my Lord?" Theon interrupts, rudely as usual.

He smiles. That’s all he does. He smiles as he approaches and gives to unbutton Jon’s jeans instead. Theon hopes he’ll be surprised. And if not, at least outraged. Theon kneels in a mockery of subservience, grins and tugs down on the offending fabric. Jon surely dresses like a nun!

He pulls his penis out deftly with his fingers, pleasantly surprised. “Oh, Lord Commander, oh… yeah, I like big cocks like yours…” He doesn’t beat around the bush any more than Jon would want it. Jon’s cock strains up, up to his navel, unsupported and looks so nice and delicious that Theon cannot help but give him a long, soft lick from balls to head. Jon only moans and covers his mouth shut with his hands to restrain himself from guiding that expert mouth further on his erection. Theon appreciates the politeness, sort of. However, he’s always been a greedy one and can’t really help but embrace Jon’s pale hips with his arms and propel himself down on his cock, his mouth adjusting to the intrusion with a gurgled moan.

He strains to give Jon a look from where he’s at, hung on his translucent pre-come covered cock and the bastard looks so needy and malleable that Theon can’t help but grin as wide as a cock in his mouth would allow and swallows him whole. Jon’s lost for words only to be shocked by the ghost of lost sensation when Theon leaves his cock and settles for massaging his balls with his fingers.

"You have to tell me what you want, Jon, otherwise you might be the one that gets fucked…"

And Snow replies to that as he knows best, because there’s no surprise he’s always had a penchant for dirty talk when it came to Theon sucking his cock.

"Oh, yeah, baby… let me fuck your sweet mouth… Oh Theon, mhhmm, yes, be eager, yes, baby…. Ohhhh, but be thorough…"

Surprising him, Jon tightens his fingers in Theon's hair, pulling playfully, on edge. There's a bit of pain, sharp as a needle, yet gone in a few seconds. Theon relaxes his mouth and swallows him whole, his gagging reflex kicking in but slowly, more controlled than usual.

"Oh, yeah, like I taught you last night, baby, oh you little fucking slut… you slutty slut…"

It’s almost too easy to make him laugh and choke and Theon slips into a bliss of his own as he feels Jon relax and enjoy himself. Last night Snow was more than eager to swallow him whole in a gesture of appreciation for keeping Robb at bay. He learned a few tricks, which made him question the level of Jon’s purity. If that’s what an all-boys boarding school does to you, Theon cannot complain., He liked it.

"You’re such a nasty little slut, Greyjoy," he says through his teeth. "I told you to be a good slut and follow my order…mhmm… I’m going to…to fuck you so hard for disobeying me, oh…. You’ll love it. You wanted it all week. I know you wanted."

Theon’s aching and deftly frees his erection, hissing around Jon’s member as he tries to adjust to the temperature. He’s hot all over and he drips pre-come on the floor as Jon seems even more lost in his monologue. It both arouses and amuses him. He now has another perspective on Jon’s choice of studies – medieval literature and the reflection alone makes him forget to breathe so he chokes and struggles with the flesh in his mouth. He knows that their little erotic display is worthy of the Decameron itself.

"Yeah, choke on it, baby… Uh… your crazy little mouth… Oh, Theon, baby… oh….mhhmmm, yeah, like that, you pretty little slut, you…. aaahhhh… you make me want to fuck your mouth so fucking much…"

So he does, because Theon lets him.

"And I want to cum in your mouth… so much, and you’ll swallow it all, oh yeah, oh yeah, like that, like that… suck, suck, suck… swallow my cock, baby, yeah…"

Theon almost forgets that his knees start to get numb because he knows Jon’s so fucking close, judging by the erratic, semi-violent movements of his slender hips, his cock eager, bordering on desperate, hitting the back of his throat with whispered counts…

"You’ve made a promise, Lord Commander," he finally manages as he draws his breath, exhausted and flushed. "You can’t just fuck my mouth and leave me hanging… you have to punish me by fucking me hard, remember? So hard, so fucking hard that I won’t be able to walk straight for weeks, months…oh, yeah… would you?"

Jon smiles at him with hazy eyes and then wets his dry lips. His voice is throaty and so fucking fraught and Theon knows very well it’s all his doing. That’s what begging Theon Greyjoy would do to you.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how to say this, but in Theon's words, this is basically butt-sex with lots of fluff.  
> Hell breaks loose, however... because I am nuts!  
> I can't wait for Ramsay to make an appearance ~ just to stir things up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, please don't make me give deep explanations about what this is about. Otherwise I will feel horrible and die. Comprende?
> 
> I want to thank  
> [Thehairshirt](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Thehairshirt/pseuds/Thehairshirt/works?fandom_id=242462) for being a golden beta! She is very funny, although very busy, and it's thanks to her that I don't begin half of my sentences with "AND" or that I don't jump from present to past tense in one sentence, disregarding all grammar rules. However, half of this fic was written without her feedback and suggestions... so... please don't kick me for molesting the English language too much!

Of course they fuck. It’s the easy way out for Theon. He pushes and pulls, he bites and kisses. Jon’s head is spinning, Theon can tell. It’s awkward at first but as soon as they lose all their clothes, they find themselves relaxing into each other’s touch. The bedroom becomes a place for exploration and acceptance. Jon’s eager but careful enough not to hurt him.

He’s a bit late when he tells Jon that he’s never done it with a man before. Jon panics, he’s obviously embarrassed at how flippant Theon behaves, he almost wants to stop… but Theon is obstinate, he wants to try it, wants the novelty, the thrill, the irresponsibility of it. He pulls him into the shower, frantically.

 They argue, Theon laughs. Of course he knows _it’s in the butt_ , of course he expects it to be uncomfortable, if not downright painful at first. He googled it before, he read about it on Wikipedia, he watched plenty of porn. Jon looks at him as if he’s an exasperated parent.

“You googled it? You fucking googled it? Wikipedia? Porn? Really, Theon!?” Theon just cracks with laughter.

Jon can’t help but follow suit.

Theon always wondered though… how it should feel. He was too scared to admit it before.

Jon feels responsible, though.

“You don’t know it, but it’s like… I become some sort of huge point of reference in your life… and… what if you’ll regret it?”

“Uhumm… yeah… right…” Theon nods and agrees. He could agree to anything if it gives him instant pleasure.

“You should know! You have fucked your way through collegel! You must have felt responsible at some point. You know the burden of it!” Jon’s being reasonable, although what he doesn’t know is that Theon’s a hedonist, an epicurean, a try-everything-at-once kind of person. Reason does not apply to him.

“Nobody complained, Jon. I didn’t complain. It’s just sex, you know.”

Jon’s a worrier. Theon kisses his pouty lips and the worry goes away, it vanishes, because it’s enough to remind him of his earlier pleas and his needy, rough thrusts from earlier.

“You didn’t spare my mouth, though… what difference does it make?”

Theon’s behaving irresponsibly; he’s too cool to think about preparations. He doesn’t want to be reasonable because Jon turned him into a greedy bitch in heat with his fingers earlier on. It makes him glad for once that they buried the hatchet and that now, they are left in the arena and have nothing to prove to each other.

He smiles and blushes every time Theon squirms uncomfortably under his weight, chirping nonsense in his ear, such as _Lord Commander_ and _Baby_. It’s the sort of stuff they wouldn’t call each other under any  circumstance. This is the only exception. Jon’s fingers work him up, he’s sweaty and almost passes out. It’s the kind of thing he craves after Jon’s erection wilts as he has to explain to him the _“mechanics of what they're about to do”_.

To Theon it’s simple, it’s just fucking, yet he needs to know how this feels, he needs to take that step. He needs to get Robb out of his system.

It’s really worrying Jon when Theon starts to laugh as he pushes the head of his cock slowly in. For a minute he’s scared, he’s unsure. He searches for his eyes, for approval, consent, anything, but Theon’s not paying attention. He’s just floating somewhere, on a soft cloud in the sky. The moment Jon thrusts further, shallowly, Theon’s eyes snap open.

“God, you’re killing me!” He says, yet he doesn’t stop grinning.

It’s all that Jon needs, so the hot coil of pressure in his belly is slowly disintegrating and turning into a burning plain in a matter of seconds. His grey, steely eyes and focused features assure Theon he knows what he’s doing. This is just fucking, just sex in the butt – how Theon likes to call it. This is nothing, because if it becomes something, then he might regret it and Jon… Jon doesn’t know what he’s going to do if he’s pushed aside, deemed unwanted, left broken-hearted.

He kisses Theon’s mouth and whispers to him to relax. Instead, Greyjoy says he should go harder and stop behaving like a wimp, because he won’t break. He just wants his cock and that’s all.

 

Not everything is pleasant, Theon has to admit. The burn is there, reminding him that he should have prepared better, that his fingers from earlier in the shower and lube alone aren’t sufficient. The burn gives way to a stretch that feels quite bearable once Jon stops for a while. He always looks at him with those worried eyes. It makes Theon’s cock turn flaccid. His hand finds it and it takes a lot of concentration to turn it to a half-decent erection.

“Gods, Snow… I didn’t know that having you between my legs would make me go limp that fast!”

He chides and he insults until Jon pushes and slides over that little bundle of nerves inside him and Theon simply moans and grunts to voice out his pleasure, as filthy mouthed as possible. Because, minutes later,  _“oh gods, oh fuck!”_ that’s so bloody amazing and it’s happening to him.

Jon grins and looks terribly tired, about to break and it’s a wonder he didn’t spill himself sooner.

“It’s your turn…”he grunts, barely able to speak. “…your turn to scream and shout…”

Theon does as instructed. It’s all easy and natural because his hand forgets his cock (which now looks more than a decent erection, it’s a spectacular one) and concentrates on Jon filling him up every time he pushes in, and in and in, then out with one smooth pull of his slender hips.

It’s amazing, really. He swears he sees stars and he moans a sultry _“oh, baby… you know how to fuck that ass”_ into Jon’s ear and he can hear him shudder and keen, so close to the edge, yet determined to turn Theon’s body to jelly first and foremost.

He trembles… He trembles and shivers with every fiber of his body, his thighs hurt like hell with the effort of the spread (he insisted he wanted it on his back) and his chest feels so full, too small a rib-cage to contain the explosion of his heart the moment he orgasms. It’s powerful and it takes all his energy. Seconds later, he’s surprised to feel Jon’s hand on his sensitive cock, a small thread of sperm being milked slowly, punishingly.

He gasps, because he can’t take it anymore. He even cries. There’s water in his eyes and he bets he looks like one of those chicks, all emotional and needy. Jon’s still inside him, moving unbearably slow, halting momentarily and waiting for a reaction on Theon’s part. He looks at him strangely, his eyes burning like burnt coals, so dark, so gleaming. Theon is frightened for a moment. He wants that hand off him, he’s about to cry and plead but the bastard just wants to drown him in pleasure, wants to smother him with sweet pain as his thumb brushes the slit on the head of his cock rhythmically.

He’s dazed. He cannot think of anything. His mind is filled with Jon, Jon, Jon… Jon’s eyes burning and seeing only him, Jon’s mouth breathing and whispering only to him, Jon’s heart beating into his, Jon’s weight- a blanket of flesh and fire on him. Jon’s cock burning him, drawing out little fireworks from his prostate, reminding him that they’re connected, they’re bound irreversibly.

He fucking cries. He feels the tear going down on his feverish cheek, he feels the salt in his mouth. His lips are dry and hot and burn. Everything burns when Jon’s around. Everything.

“Oooohhh…” It’s all that he can push out of his mouth. This feels like dying, consumed by the flame, by those dark eyes that reach the abyss inside him. He’s dying because Jon pushes again, forcefully, desperately, his arm trembles with the effort of sustaining his body enough not to crush Theon under the weight. He starts again; the thrusts are irregular, chaotic, fast. He tripped that edge and Theon feels him ejaculating, feels everything.

Jon’s face is almost serene as his arms clasp Theon in the throes of his orgasm. He doesn’t make a sound. He can’t, even if he wants to.

.

.

.

The sheets are in the washing machine. Everything is in the bloody washing machine and Theon still doesn’t want to leave the bed. Jon cleaned him with a washcloth, he moved and parted his legs as if Theon was a rag doll and dabbed with water on his still sensitive hole. By then, Theon was past any shame, that’s how exhausted he was. He slept for an hour or so, unable to budge because Jon’s embrace felt nice. He liked that, even though he’s never been a cuddler. The mere idea makes him want to puke in his mouth. Jon sweeps the sheets from under his body and gathers their clothes.

 _“Let him do that,”_ Theon thinks. He’s too tired and his nerves need rest. It feels as if he’s forgotten how to hold himself upright, that’s why.

Jon comes to him with sandwiches and a glass of that bland soymilk he doesn’t really like and even pulls Theon's frame enough that his head rests on the pillow and he can drink without making a mess of himself. He smiles at him, and Theon notices that the pout is gone, the worried arch in his eyebrows non-existent.

“Ham and cheese?” He starts, a playful look in his eyes. “Let me guess… veggie week is over?”

Jon bursts out laughing and Theon is surprised to find out that he likes the taste of it. Jon’s food tastes good, he should have tried it earlier.

“Move…” Jon insists as he tries pushing Theon to the left side of the bed. “Move, Theon… Just move to your side!”

It makes Theon laugh inside. To his side of Jon’s bed? That’s the best joke he’s ever heard. Jon’s so peculiar about his stuff, he’s so protective of it, like that one time when they were kids and Theon hid his only car toy. He cried for hours because he couldn’t find it, then Robb gave him one of his. However, Jon didn’t accept it. He didn’t want his pity. Later, Theon placed the toy strategically in his room. He’d had enough of the bastard’s pathetic cries for that day.

He looks at him unabashedly until Jon notices and starts blushing as if he was the one spread open and filled with cum an hour earlier. Theon knows that his looks is meant to kill, meant to embarrass, meant to despoil. Jon’s open and raw before him, as innocent as a virgin, as insecure as ever.

“You like taking care of people.”

It’s not a question, it’s what he concludes as he manages to move and make enough room for Jon, who avoids his eyes now. _"How interesting,"_ he thinks.

 

.

.

.

At night, he manages to convince Robb that he should go to sleep early. He puts a plate of pastries and a glass of milk in front of him and wishes him good-night. Guilt surges through him.

Robb started complaining the minute he entered the door. Catelyn called him. Everybody called him on the phone asking how it went. Robb started panicking, he started talking nonsense, he started calling people and asking for their opinion.

Theon realized he couldn’t just go to Robb and give him the usual hug. He refrained from it. Jon avoided Robb altogether. Theon had to cope with his insecurities, had to talk him out of his anxiety. He had to listen, even though he didn’t want to. He couldn’t just back out and say he’s too tired because Jon fucked him so good until his brain lost all synapses and all sense of direction.

His heart shrank and shrivelled in his chest and he no sooner started breaking into a cold sweat.

As soon as Robb is tired enough to go to his bed and sleep, Theon goes to the small spare room he temporarily inhabits, the mattress so small that it creaks under his weight.

He feels weird. He feels like he’s done the most unintelligent thing ever. He can’t regret it, though… It felt good, it felt heavenly but the cost of it is something Theon cannot accept.

He’s realized that Robb’s difficult already, that he started demanding too much attention from Theon which makes him feel like an unmarried aunt. Jon on the other hand looked at him with meaningful eyes during sex and Theon knows that deep inside of them is hidden hope and hunger… something he doesn’t want to face. Everybody wants a piece of him.

He waits for Jon. For consequence. For punishment.

It’s already dark outside.

He tries to flip through some of the books stacked on the floor neatly, along with magazines and sports equipment. Foil and sabre. He stares at the fencing paraphernalia placed in the corner. Jon’s, because Robb abandoned it to concentrate on college.

After re-reading the first chapters of Moby Dick, it dawns on Theon that it’s too late into the night and that Jon’s not coming.

When debating in his mind whether to go after him or not proves futile, Theon simply gets up and finds himself in the living room, fingering the remote as he tries to figure out which is which channel.

There’s Robb’s room, quiet and dark and for a moment he wants to get inside, pet his hair and whisper how much he cares for him, but knowing that’s a stupid idea that will only confuse Robb, he abandons it, moving to the opposite side - Jon’s room. He knocks, even though he knows it makes no difference to the other, then enters as unobtrusive as possible, first waiting with the door slightly open, and then sneaking like a feline in the room.

Jon’s back is turned. His headphones are on his ears and he seems to be lost to the world at his desk.  He notices that he already changed the sheets. They smell crisp and remind him of a garden.

He reacts only when Theon’s shadow casts over his book, then lifts his head, that strange looks still in his eyes.

He makes no motion for the headphones, just gazes at Theon’s willowy form, guessing lines and patterns.

_Bastard!_

He approaches carefully, as if Jon has a sword in his hand and is ready to step forward and nick him. His teeth worry his lower lip concentrating too hard on not acknowledging Theon’s presence and vulnerability sneaks in, eroding his mask of self-control.

“What do you want?” His lips tremble and the words get out stifled and heavy. He’s about to cry, because Theon recognizes that stare, knows it too well how girly-Jon used to mop and run away to cry in his room whenever he stole Robb from him.

But he’s all grown up now. He’s tall and strong and interesting and so fucking beautiful to Theon’s eyes. He’s beautiful, but he’s no innocent. He’s fascinating but so very unlike any other thing in this world. He’s also great in bed, Theon was lucky enough to experience that as well.

Their little conversation comes back to him in snippets. Even if Theon doesn’t want to admit to it yet, Jon feels responsible. He now realizes that all those words were meant to spare and protect Jon’s heart, not his. Silly thing… Silly Jon. Theon steps in before he allows himself to feel sorry for Jon.

Theon cannot let the boy's tears travel down his cheeks, because he knows that Jon is too far gone that he’ll forget this is Theon, the most unnerving person in the whole world who’s going to see him cry. He cannot let that happen. Then, he cups his head into his palms and kisses away those tears that now run freely, as if a dam’s been broken.

He’s sorry too. He’s sorry, but he can’t let that show. It will squash Jon. It will absolutely crush him.

When his tongue pleads for entrance he gets confused about the reason he’s doing it, because he cannot figure which would be a more terrible sight: Jon’s resurfacing of childhood rejections or Jon’s unfulfilled hopes concerning Theon.

He kisses to soothe, he realizes. He kisses to mend something that’s about to break. He kisses him gently and for the first time, Jon’s pliant, accepting, hopeful.

Theon can’t believe that it’s the same person that made him abandon all propriety and moan like a slut while butt fucked. Where did his confidence go all of a sudden? He relied on Jon’s pretenses more than anything in the world. He later realized that he’s been leaning on something already broken.

Jon lets the headphones be taken off, lets his ripped T-shirt be taken off, then leans into Theon and his body language demands to be embraced, just like a child.

They stay like that on the bed, Theon’s head propped on the high, wooden headrest and Jon in his arms, curled into a ball of soft skin and fluffy hair. He's easily ensnared by panic and anxiety, but Theon tries to calm him by circling his back with numb thumbs.

Jon’s sighing and yawning in his chest, warming it with hot breaths.

“The day after tomorrow, I have an exam too, you know," Jon says meekly.  Theon could swear that’s how mice would speak if only they could. Everybody wants a piece of him… everybody. Jon’s no exception, either. But he's the only exception he'll allow tonight.

The information is new to Theon and he can’t help but think that Jon must have been suffering in silence all these days. Because he never asked for a thing, because he was there at night instead of doing any studying, because he was always on his toes, always pricking up his ears, always too considering of Robb’s feelings.

And Theon feels so sorry and unable to do as much as comfort him without sounding like an idiot. Because he knows what’s this all about, now with Jon curled into him, nuzzling his neck and hiding his stressed face deeper into the soft fabric. Always too neglected, always on his own. Catelyn’s resounding voice telling him without a trace of kindness to leave the house when she had visits from Lysa and her relatives, Sansa’s cold demeanor towards him, Ned Stark, pretending that nothing wrong is going on. For years.

Theon’s been more of a son to Catelyn than Jon himself, if judging by his own unfortunate circumstances. His mother in the asylum, his brothers dead, his sister left with too much responsibility, his father, distant and cruel. He became foster material ever since his mother fell into madness. Hell… he’s been foster material ever since he was born, unwanted and rejected by a father too bitter and enraged by his wife’s declining health. He was a mistake, a reason for her illness to resurface, a factor of stress on her already imbalanced mental and emotional health. She wanted to kill herself with Theon watching. She would have done it and she would have been freed from the burden of her own mind.

Jon, on the other hand never knew his mother and for that reason, anything slightly resembling one. Catelyn was a lady, a wife, a mother who the children she birthed but could not accept one more. He was a slap in the face to her. A constant reminder. An error on Ned’s part.

And now, he has to make up for all that, he has to take it away from him because otherwise it’s going to crush him, it’s going to take him away from Theon, estrange him. He doesn’t want him upset, or furious, or lost, because he likes him too much when he’s all relaxed into his arms, when he’s calm and his stare turns peaceful. He wants the all-confident Jon back. Wants him determined and precise, perfectly aware and in control. He wants… He cannot always get what he wants, though.

So he resumes kissing him because he’s mad (or stupid) enough to let him think that he’s a friend and someone he should trust. Just because they fucked, just because they got each other off, just because they kissed afterwards. It’s the least he can do.

He kisses him, urgently, pleading to his lips to open for more. Jon’s disheveled and barely registers what’s going on around him.

“I still haven’t finished…” Theon just laughs.

 Someone has to be the irresponsible one.

.

.

.

It’s 2 a.m. and Theon decided he really likes watching Jon getting immersed in his books. He skims through a tattered Hemingway novel until he finds a chapter he remembers from his teens and tries to use the book as a front cover for his unmistakable grin.

Jon’s so studious and conscientious at times. Still a needy bastard, in Theon’s opinion. Still cute, still fuckable.

He watches Jon’s lips touch lightly the pen-cap as his eyebrows knot in concentration. The thought of those lips teasing is enough to drive him mad and in less than half an hour, Theon’s gone in the bathroom using hair conditioner of all things instead of lube. Propped with one arm against the cold tiles, he started stroking himself harder and harder, spreading the scented substance on his erection until he can finally imagine it’s Jon’s pouty mouth on him until… until Jon’s features morph into Robb’s, suddenly, unexpectedly.

For a second he stares transfixed into Robb’s eyes, and the thought alone, the iniquitous betrayal of his troubled mind, the sway and the drift of that image drove him to come undone. " _That’s it"_ , he thinks, " _that’s it"_. For several seconds it’s a prolonged heaven he feels, until reality slaps him hard in the face.

Well… at least metaphorically, because wanking to thoughts of Robb while the guy’s in the room isn’t how Theon imagined things to turn.

He freezes, looks at him with mouth agape and cannot think of anything. He should have locked that door sooner than later.

“Theon, what the hell?”

It’s Robb, and he looks grossed out at Theon, his eyes spooked, his face white as a sheet. It’s not embarrassment as much as it’s disbelief. He’s mute for a second, then backs off to leave but hits the wall instead. Robb’s flustered and he waves his hands in an alarmed way.

“Greyjoy, what the fuck?” He turns to face him with visible effort. “Don’t leave that stuff on the walls!”

 It’s a distressed move on his part and Theon’s half sorry, half frustrated about the whole incident. He has an inkling that Robb won’t be able to look at him, nor at the shower’s walls the same way as before. Not too soon, though.

A look into each other’s eyes is enough. They silently agree on silence.

.

.

.

By next morning, Theon’s already been in and out of Jon’s room enough times. When he’s not watching Jon rubbing the pen on his lips, he’s either playing some stupid ninja fruit or bubble game on his phone, or re-arranging the books in alphabetical order on the shelf. He’s bored out of his mind and even goes out of his way to buy pizza and milkshakes from the family restaurant at the end of the street, in hope that he and Jon and probably Robb - who’s become a hermit again after the little bathroom incident – could eat together as they did a week before.

It’s really not difficult to make Robb pay attention to him afterwards. After days of incessant babbling and stressed out conversations –or  rather monologues on Robb’s part –  Theon’s convinced he will never let his stupid feelings get in the way of their friendship. Playing chess with Robb while Jon’s napping reminds him of their childhood and what they’ve promised to each other: forever and always, brothers. Still, they try not to make eye-contact because blushing is not considered manly in Theon’s opinion.

 

.

.

.

 

It’s really not very difficult to convince Robb he should call and ask for a date with Jeyne Westerling after he doesn’t stop blabbing about her. Jon’s eyes pierce Theon’s strangely over dinner, seeing how much of a good friend Theon wants to prove himself to be. He sees through his bullshit instantly. Jon smirks but keeps his head low. Unlike Robb, though, Jon never takes his books to the kitchen, so all he has is his plate and curly hair to hide behind. Theon briefly wonders whether Robb has any idea about Jon’s incoming exam, about how stressful the whole week if not month, has been to him. He also wonders whether he has any idea that he and Jon fucked each other’s brains out a couple of days ago. That thought is dismissed as soon as his eyes meet Roob’s, however.

The Westerling girl becomes some sort of mythical subject to their evening discussions.

She’s perfect.

She’s kind, she’s smart, she’s beautiful.

Robb talks about her incessantly. It’s a pain.

Theon is pleasantly surprised, as if he waited forever to hear about it from Robb, whose general luck with the ladies has been abandoned as a wild goose chase ever since he broke up with the Karstark girl. Or the Frey girl. He wants to shudder at the memory.

Theon was glad about the Frey girl, though. She would have made a poor choice anyway.

The Westerling girl soon becomes this person that will somehow snatch Robb away from them. She’s a no-face, she’s a typical Jeyne. Theon met a girl named Jeyne. He even fucked her, three times, precisely. It didn’t matter that she was Sansa’s friend or that she couldn’t keep it a secret. It didn’t matter that she didn’t understand what Theon meant by “no strings attached” either.

It’s a relief when Robb finally calls her and after a few seconds of deep breaths he gets straight to the point. It’s a date!

Both Theon and Jon are surprised at how easy it went, considering Robb’s frequent loss of ideas whenever he’s faced with the prospects of meeting up with a cute girl. It’s even more surprising that tomorrow is all theirs.

.

.

.

 

Theon knows that’s a weak reason and that he should be the one spouting nonsense, not Jon. He feels a sick thrill for stealing Jon from his usual routine of wondering through book cafes and his friends and his weird music. Jon looks hard at him when he says it’s too risky, but gives in after Theon gets to convince him with his mouth on his neck that this is a very good idea to relieve stress after a very consuming examination. He really makes a mental note to thank that girl for existing, so that perhaps he’ll stop thinking of Robb and focus on what’s in front of him.

He feels giddy when he unbuttons Jon’s denim and hurriedly kisses his chest. When he kisses a thigh with the skill gained from bedding all those wenches in college dormitories a couple of years ago, Jon whimpers pathetically, the front of his boxers tenting and soaking wet with pre-come.

“I want you,” he says in a whisper.

“I want you too.”

Theon looks from between his legs at his face, searches for something in his eyes. Jon lets it out, unabashedly, wantonly. He's so free in that moment, so liberated that he thinks he's going to fly away.

“I want you inside me. I want you to fuck me.”

His words don’t mean that much, but the tone he uses, sends shivers down Theon’s spine. He feels too hot and his head swims. His lungs stop taking in oxygen and he feels like dying, because that’s his own unvoiced request from Jon. It’s true, he wants him, sprawled in ecstasy on the bed, whimpering and muttering more nonsense as he fucks him slowly, carefully and kisses his full lips and his nose and his eyes and his forehead. He wants to give everything to him because he wants to forget. He reassures him that he can always have him, because Theon feels too sorry for all those years when he passed him by and sneered at him derogatorily, and spat ugly, repugnant words such as _bastard_ to his face, to his teary eyes, to his teary doe eyes.

He moves away, all the while holding Jon’s gaze. He disrobes unhurriedly, savoring the way Jon’s lips tremble, the way Jon’s hands reach down to touch himself, the way his legs part invitingly. He takes it all off and he’s surprised to realize he’s hard, leaking and unashamed. Jon’s stare is hungry and Theon relishes in its burning heat as his hands trace the skin to his navel, the downy path leading  into his boxers, then pulls at the fabric unceremoniously. His display is lascivious, full of promises of pleasure, so hot.

Theon helps him lose the rest of his clothes as well and instead of lounging down at him immediately and biting that perfect skin that stretches on his thighs as Jon parts them impossibly far away, he takes his time, examining in awe how much he’s grown, how much he missed during those fumbling nights they had on the couch, half dressed and apprehensive of a door opening too soon. It all seems like a dream, unlike the last time.

Naked, Jon lies relaxed into the mattress, looking at Theon from behind long, black lashes. His pupils have dilated with desire and a fever seems to have caught up with him. His cheeks are red, his lips are dry and when the tip of his tongue travels down to wet them, Theon cannot stifle a moan of his own and throws his shirt and the rest of his clothes away because it seems unfair to deprive himself of some skin to skin contact.  Gone seems the confident man from before, the one that took Theon to impossible heights and fucked him hard until he passed out. This time, Theon promises to himself he won’t fall asleep from the exertion.

It almost seems absurd as he kisses Jon everywhere he can reach that he’s never considered this, that their rivalry made it almost impossible for them to ever be civil with each other. It didn’t impede Theon from admitting that this was by far the most exciting thing since he lost his virginity, smoked pot for the first time or discovered some godforsaken microscopic tentacled creature in the abyss of the sea.

 He took Jon in his mouth, surprising him into a gasp and could care less as his own mind became foggy with desire. His taste and scent alone aroused Theon even more so  and he stroked himself mercilessly while Jon pushed further into his mouth. He could take it. That was a moment that extended into eternity, a challenge he wanted to honor, because he wanted to come right then and there but could not get Jon’s pleas to be fucked out of his mind.

 He sucked more fervently on the head, massaging the sides of Jon’s shaft with his tongue from time to time, until pulling away and focusing on his balls and licking them urgently. Jon’s eyes were half-lidded when Theon decided that he should benefit from something different. When he kisses and licks down his balls in one sweep of his tongue, everything seems as if on fire.

His pleas and useless prudish talk were soon dismissed, mostly because rimming was something that only happened to Jon when Satin was involved, and since then… a long time has passed. Theon started lavishly licking at his hole, mostly because he had nothing better to do in order to ignore his own aching cock.

If anything went wrong, Theon couldn’t say. It wasn’t Jon’s first time receiving such attention but he could always tell with the girls he fucked that they secretly loved it. That, because those who denied it were either too ashamed (which turned out fine after some recreational joint or a few shots of tequila) or sexually frustrated, such as Jeyne Poole, whom he met at dear Sansa’s anniversary. She usually pretended she was on a dentist’s chair whenever he went down on her. Theon, though, knew for sure that she couldn’t wait to write it all down in her diary. After all, it ended badly between them.

Jon was different from any girl he fucked. Jon was different, not because he wasn’t a girl. Jon was just different. Theon didn’t think of him as his best friend’s half-brother, but he treated him as special because he always reminded Theon of how much he’ll never have Robb. Every kiss and every lick, every merciless push of his tongue in Jon’s quivering hole estranged him from  the possibility of ever confessing to Robb, let alone simply jumping him and smothering him with kisses. It was a good thing Robb liked girls and met Jeyne Westerling, though. This way, Theon could trick his mind into thinking that it was an impossible feat. Every step he took with Jon, meant a step away from Robb.

Taking a break to breathe in deep, he noticed Jon enjoying himself, his mouth stuffed with his own fingers, the other stroking his cock lightly, and by the looks of it, barely containing himself from going over the edge. His face was set in concentration as Theon was now licking him with slight pauses, quite spellbound after watching Jon’s drool dripping in long, silvery strings on the pillowcase while his fingers mimicked a strange in-out motion that reminded him of primal, raw fucking. Theon could almost see himself pushing into Jon and grasping the well-defined thighs in his arms just to propel himself further. For the moment, however,  it was a necessary evil to just concentrate on making Jon wet and relaxed, enough to forget himself.

The undeniable sense of loss when Theon withdrew his mouth was so acute that Jon could do nothing but drown it away in pleasure, wrenching moans and gasps and another series of obscenely drawn sounds from his pretty, gasping mouth.

Theon will never forget Jon’s wanton look when he positioned to enter him little by little, how he made him come, how he kissed him everywhere. He will also never forget what happened afterwards.

.

.

.

It’s in the bloody kitchen they meet of all places. The bloody fucking kitchen. Robb has already downed a bottle of Corona and is now furiously opening a second one, not bothering with a bottle opener.

It would be an understatement to say that Theon’s fear peaks to one hundred from a scale of one to ten. As he finds himself at the door, he really wants to shout to Jon to lock himself in the bathroom for safety because when he turns, Robb smashes the bottle right above his head, spreading beer everywhere, making a mess of the kitchen, making a mess out of Theon.

“How long has this been going around?” He asks, and it’s a moment later that Theon realizes Robb doesn’t speak to him. It’s Jon he’s addressing, Jon who waits at a considerable distance from him, in the shadows.

It surprises Theon that he doesn’t try to smooth things up, doesn’t make any effort to placate Robb. He’s just silent, not even looking at Robb directly and when he tries to catch his attention, his pleas are blatantly ignored.

“You do realize that I’m not going to ask you twice to leave, Jon… You are my brother, but for fuck’s sake... what's been going on... I can't have that!” He exhales hard, alcoholic breaths, and Theon shudders at the thought of Robb listening in on them, waiting for them to finish, working his anger with alcohol, preparing all this time to blow out, to lash at them.

“I do hope you’re smart enough to know that I don’t expect to see you here tomorrow. I don’t care how, I don’t care where you’re going, but I just want you gone. I can’t even look at you right now.”

Jon’s already gone to his room by the time Robb is done with the yelling. His attention turns to Theon instead.

Theon realizes he’s the only one left and the presence of Robb alone is winding him up. He covers his naked chest with trembling hands and guilt threads at his edges once more.

Robb’s voice is unnervingly calm; it has a perilous tinge to it when he speaks. His words are like knives, his moves are restrained, perfectly calculated.

 “You know you’ve always been my friend, Theon.”

Theon waits for the insults, his expectations are really running low.

“Hell… I even thought of you as my brother, Theon! Do you know what that means? Do you even understand?”

Theon’s not sure whether he’s allowed to answer that. To him, this seems like a nightmare, Robb’s exaggerating, his rhetorical questions confuse him.

Finally, he tries to appease Robb, his whole body language submissive, non-threatening.

“I know that, but Robb… understand that I didn’t plan on hurting you. Neither did Jon. It’s not his fault, it just happened, ok?”

Robb’s eyebrows knit cynically and now he is coldly furious. What’s the scariest thing is that he still maintains that impassive tone which hurts the most. He should yell and lounge at Theon instead and Theon is sure that he’ll forgive him in the end. They’ll make up, they will explain, Robb will understand, eventually…

 This, on the other hand, this seems final, as if Robb doesn’t even want to acknowledge him, he speaks through him, he sees through him.

“You want me to understand that you’ve been fucking my brother behind my back? You really want me to understand that, and accept it? Why did you come here, Theon? Was it to screw Jon? Did he tell you about his suicide attempt, about his therapy sessions or did he pretend that he’s fine, doing better than ever?”

For a second or so, Theon’s expression remained baffled, insecure. “Robb… I had no idea…”

“Of course you had no idea! That’s how Jon is… he begged me not to tell anyone so I didn’t, because I’m a good brother, I am a good friend! I do what's expected of me!”

He’s never seen Robb more upset than that day.

“He didn’t tell you how he wanted to end his life because he was dumped by a girl while in boarding school? Really, where were you... travelling the world? You missed that? Oh… he must really care for you to let you fuck him like that, Theon! He must really appreciate your… friendship. Hah! So… tell me… are you a good friend, Theon?”

As much as Theon wanted to prove him wrong, he couldn’t even reply to that. It was absurd. The whole situation was absurd.

“I will always stay faithful to you, Robb, I will always be there for you. I am still your friend. I just… I am sorry…”

“You’re my friend…” Robb’s tone is full of disbelief, cynical.

“Yes,” he replies full of hope, wanting this to be over sooner, wishing for the situation to get back to normal.

“Fine! Then prove it! Prove it!”

That’s how a punch to the gut feels. That’s how a slap in the face feels. Robb’s full of hate right now, he sees red like a bull in the arena and Theon just happens to be there, the mere presence provoking him.

“No, Robb… Just calm down. We can talk this through like adults.”

“Prove it! Prove it to me!”

“I don’t have to prove anything to you, Robb! You’re not my father!” Theon's trapped in a rage of his own, in a frustrated anger that lashes at the recent news about Jon, at Robb's insistent demands. At the absurdity of the whole thing.

In that moment, his awareness peaks, his eyes dilate, his mouth goes dry. He can feel everything that happens to his body.

He feels his nose crack with the severity of the blow.  What happens next is a blur in Theon’s mind.

Because what happens next, is Ramsay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I feel like a horrible person.  
> I enjoyed writing every single word of it. Even the cheesy dialogue, even the melodrama...  
> Yes, how horrible of me!  
> I feel sick now! Let me know what you think! Comment, leave a note, say what you liked or didn't like. Have a nice summer!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you want it so much, why don’t you get it, hm? There's no victory in giving up. ”  
> Says Ramsay who is a domineering bastard with lots of daddy issues.  
> \--  
>  It takes a while until Theon starts to feel that something is deeply wrong with their "relationship".  
> Robbie-boy is lost. Jon Snow is lost. But he's Jon Snow, so don't feel sorry for him, he's used to it.  
>  Ned Stark is gone. Samwell Tarly eats buckets of ice cream, as if that is going to solve the problem, right?  
> No, it won't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing this chapter has been an absolute pleasure! I loved every minute of it and I hope that you'll love reading it. My fingers missed the keyboard so much!  
> I have no idea what am I doing but I just go with the flow...  
> This has some Ramsay/Theon and also gives us a glimpse of some future Throbb? (maybe????) Also... it has mentions of Ned's death.  
> \--  
> Unfortunately unbeta-ed...

It’s stupid really… how they met.

It was at work, of all places. Hell… it could have been a seedy bar at the end of the street, it could have been in a club, it could have been at the police station, it could have been… anywhere else.

It was the beginning of September and the clouds were gathering, obscuring the sun in shades of grey and white and pale lavender. It was beautiful. Between long walks from his apartment to his job, Theon could count the steps and look at the serpentine river , look at the passersby, he could think of everything he had and lost in his life, he could hope for whatever his self-imposed exile would bring him. it was mind clearing, just like running in the middle of the night along the same silvery river, pouring his fearful, pestering thoughts into every movement, into every breath.

He met him at the office. Of all places.

How stupid.

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.

.

He remembers the grey stones of the castle very well… it was something his father liked very much, strolling across those ruins, planning on what to do with them, ordering people around, making very little progress, except for his madness, perhaps.

Their reunion is cold, colder than expected. His sister looks haughtily at him as she leads the way.

“It’s been how long?” she inquires pretending she cannot remember. It’s a trick of hers; it’s her way of annoying him to no end, her way of showing him to his place. The unwanted son, the prodigal.

“Asha… you know damn well how long it’s been. Don’t play these games with me!”

His voice has no power, no authority. We don’t need a man in the house, they said.

_Asha is enough. You are not, on the other hand._

“Temper, temper, dear brother… How are the Starks?”

For a brief second he wants to reply, just the way he’d been taught by Ned himself. He lets it go, though.

“Did you go to the funeral?”

It’s hard to hide much from Asha. He hates her questions.

“I am here now. Does it matter?”

Her eyes are grey in their searching, watery grey. Hard and pitying.

“Well, dear sister… I’d rather be with you and the rest of the wonderful Greyjoys… my heart can’t take the amount of love we feel for one another!”

“Spare me!” she cuts him off suddenly, her voice sharp as a blade through Theon’s blithe sarcasm and poor self-control. “You would have been welcome if only… if only… Father is sick.”

“That’s some news, honey… How’s mother? Is she sick as well? We’re a sick little bunch, aren’t we? How’s sweet old Uncle Vic? Still whaling illegally?”

He likes to see her frown. He likes how she swats the choppy hair from her eyes and how mean is her stride. She’d be so much fun if she’d forget the exhausting attitude. For once, at least.

“Oh… don’t tell me… are you still hoping he’ll leave you everything he’s got?”

“Cut the crap or I’ll punch you in the face! By the way… who broke your nose?”

This time, it’s Theon’s turn to become all silent.

When they reach their father’s room, Asha insists that she should accompany him. Balon Greyjoy is sitting at his desk, frowning and silently cursing at the outside weather. What’s even more curious is that he barely looks his only son in the eyes, focusing all the time on the window.  As it is expected, their discussion degenerates rapidly. Theon’s running out of arguments and Asha says nothing to prove their father wrong.

“I don’t necessarily want you but I do need you. We haven’t seen each other in years, father…”

 “When I was young and just married your mother, I was a very foolish man. Not as foolish as you, though. I wanted to have a lot of kids, but no matter how many you have they will always disappoint you.”

“Father… I…”

“Get out! Get out! You’re no son of mine!”

.

.

.

At first, he hates working there. It was his sister’s idea that Theon should settle down, somewhere calm and predictable. Of all places, it’s a publishing company, tame and mediocre, like the suits everybody seems to be wearing. His employer, someone called Roose Bolton is the kind of person you don’t want to piss off, he’s heard - but he’s never met him so he doesn’t take any precautions. Three weeks into his office work, annoying phone calls and lame black coffee, Theon decides to slack for a couple of hours. He pinches the bottom of a mousy secretary and she yelps in shock but her cheeks go aflame so he goes as far as pushing for a kiss. And it works. The taste of victory settles comfortably in his belly and returning to his boring papers seems like a terrible thing to do, so he roams about the building and lazily checks every nook and corner. At first, he doesn’t know what he’s looking for.

Taking the lift between some non-descript floors; he reaches the top of the building. His bellybutton feels the same strange pull of the gravity when the lift stops and when he gets out, the strangest view greets him. When he approaches, silent and slow as not to be seen, Theon knows that it’s moments like these that count the most. Spying never seemed more thrilling.

 It’s a rare occasion to see Roose Bolton at work or rather chastising his sons. Roose Bolton is like a spider. He is disgusting and frightening at the same time, silent and shrewd like a snake. The oldest, Domeric, is apologizing and even bowing to their father. Every muscle on his face is contorted in a big, unbearable apologetic grimace. He reminds Theon of Robb, of Robb and his perfect excuses, carrying the burden of being the perfect son all along. He hates the resemblance instantly.

The only interesting thing in there seems Ramsay Bolton, the owner’s son… or rather… bastard son. The moment his eyes land on Ramsay, everything seems more bearable. He’s heard enough of Ramsay to know that he’s worse than his father but somehow he can’t make the connection between the cruel remarks and the way that the Bolton bastard presents himself to his father’s eyes. He’s torn between the urge to please his father and the fury of snapping at him, stuck between a dog’s need to be comforted and acknowledged and a beast’s primal instinct of grazing at that thin  neck with drastic consequences for the Bolton elder. It’s all in his eyes. They speak of death and horrors as he bows with spite and disgusting servility. Ramsay Bolton is disgusted at his own disgusting display of impotence. There lies a threat, though, and Theon swears that Bolton senior must be blind to not see it. It’s so obvious.

It makes him smile.

Theon soon learns everything about the bastard’s schedule. At first, it’s all about getting to know who he really is, then watching him becomes an absolute necessity so Theon finds himself daydreaming in fascination about the enigma that is Ramsay Bolton.

At least for the next couple of months.

 He’s tall, strong and has something that Theon can’t pinpoint. It’s this mixture of mystery and Ramsay’s icy eyes that make Theon fall for the guy. And he falls so hard.

Ramsay is good at choosing his words. He’s a master of patience and it’s only a month after they meet that he invites Theon out.

They apparently go steady from there. In Theon’s opinion, this is the longest time he’s ever been with someone. It’s a new record of sorts. After he’s left in front of his house with a only a kiss, Theon decides that he wants more… and more he shall have. Three glasses of vodka into the night were not enough so it’s Theon who says it first.

“Let’s sleep together.”

Ramsay’s jacket is black leather and his hands are large and so pale that the contrast created into the drowsy night seems like something out of a black and white photography. Unlike Theon who smells of booze and cozy cologne, he has no smell at all, like a thing that was kept too much into the cold. He smells like frozen air and nothing more. Desperation reads clearly in Theon’s eyes when Ramsay says nothing and doesn’t smile. He doesn’t laugh it off, he doesn’t even joke about it. He doesn’t try to make it easier for Theon whose discomfort is clear.

He takes pleasure in it, watching with cold, dead eyes, as pale as the moon, as distant as the stars. He smokes his cigarette slowly as if he’s thinking and Theon is left with making stupid excuses and tries to leave as fast and as inconspicuous as possible.

“Did I tell you that you can leave?”

That’s all that he says.

.

.                                                                                                                               

.

Jon Snow is prepared to face the fact that he’s been broke for a while and then decides that he should accept Sam’s offer. It’s not easy living with Sam and his petty house rules. It’s even more difficult to sleep in the same bed with Sam who takes nearly two thirds of the space of the queen sized mattress. It’s actually horrible to be dependent of him so much. Jon feels like he’s under Catelyn’s scrutinizing gaze over again. He feels naked, like a little boy, he feels like Snow the bastard as he watches with helpless eyes how he can’t find a decent job and how his savings slowly but substantially thin out. It’s either because Sam wants them to share expenses on stupid things like ice-cream or that he buys comics instead of reading them for free in the shop.

Keeping up with his classes at the Uni seems like all that he’s left with. That and uncle Benjen’s letters or phone calls from his father.

Sometimes, though, he thinks about Theon and how he disappeared from the face of the earth.

He imagines those laughing eyes and those steady hands on him but now, now he realizes how fragile they were in reality. The smile could be wiped as easily as a chalk drawing and that surety, that steadiness had nothing to do with Theon’s strength. Instead, it had everything to do with the complete lack of it. In fact, now that he thinks it over, Jon finds it funny how much of Theon’s imposing looks was based only on make-believe. He wasn’t that strong at all. He’s never been. That’s what makes him look back to their moments spent together with a weak heart.

Jon Snow hates to admit that he misses him. He misses him greatly.

Months after Ned passes away, Jon doesn’t know what to do with himself and that’s when he goes decides that nothing, not even making up with Robb or getting to see Theon again is going to make him feel whole again.

.

.

.

 It’s unnerving and shameful how much he appears to take pleasure in watching Theon squirm and shiver in the dark, long night. It makes Theon’s eyes to switch in a matter of mere seconds from laughing and hopeful to terrified and resentful.

“Father knows that something is up. He suspects me of not being the son he made me to be…”

The drowsy monologue bores Theon to death but he’s learnt to hide it so well. He does it for Ramsay’s sake, to spare him more doubt.

“So what if he knows? Let him know, what is it to you?”

But all that Ramsay does is smile that cat-like smile, and his pupils widen so much that Theon believes for a moment that he’s been drowning all along and the water is as dark as the night.

It’s an ocean of nothingness, and Theon envies Ramsay for it.

“If you want to know my opinion, your father is a stuck up asshole in a position of power… just that. I bet that he’s cold even when he’s fucking Walda. I bet he can’t even make her c…”

“Shut up!”

He’s angry now and to Theon he looks more beautiful than ever. The staccato of his breathing, the way he angrily drags smoke from the cigarette and into his lungs, the way that his body moves in the dark, solid and pale, muscles well-defined under the soft expanse of skin, these are all things that Theon’s come to love when it comes to Ramsay. Even his name,  Ramsay… he gets a perverse pleasure by saying it out loud when they fuck or whenever they are together, as if saying it numerous times would turn everything into perfection.

He sits lazily in the bed and watches Ramsay as he lights another cigarette. He opens the window. The smoke is white against the black velvet of the city night. He sits there naked and unafraid to be seen. He’s gorgeous and Theon doesn’t keep it a secret. He always tells Ramsay what he thinks.

“You’re gorgeous, did you know that?”

Ramsay just continues to smoke undisturbed and then he turns to look at Theon who now turned on the nightstand lamp. He looks satisfied but somehow, he doesn’t believe a single word that Theon says. And Theon says a lot of things, especially when they fuck.

Ramsay throws the half-smoked cigarette out of the window, closes the window and returns to the bed, crawling like a panther until Theon starts laughing and joking again. Theon says a lot of shit when he thinks he’s happy.

Then it happens again, and just for a second, Theon thinks the grip is too hard. He can’t breathe. He feels his cheeks go dark as he suffocates. This can’t be happening.

“Say that you’re mine, say it!”

His hand travels downwards and there’s pleasure and there’s pain. Ramsay knows exactly what he’s doing.

It happens again. Ramsay bites his chest and his teeth leave marks, red and angry. He claws at his waist and for a brief moment closes his eyes as if this, all of this is exquisite. He grunts, he growls. He’s like a beast. The more he takes charge of Theon’s body, the more erotic the experience.

When Ramsay enters him slowly until there’s no further place to go, Theon realizes that this is how he wanted things to be all his life. He kisses his neck instead and he does it unlike any other time, he entwines his limbs with Ramsay’s until there’s no way of telling which belongs to whom. He really likes the madness of it all. He wants Ramsay to give himself completely because he’s sick of hearing about his father’s suspicions and his brother’s incompetence.

Ramsay is burning through him. He moves steadily, constantly and it’s this maddeningly slow pace that makes Theon wish for more. He urges him with pathetic pleas. His eyes are watery and he’s on the brink of crying. His body is exhausted and there’s a dull pain shrouded in doubt that settles in his chest. This never happened with Jon, this never happened before.

“You’re mine, do you know that?” And he’s looking straight into him, not at him as one might imagine. He’s piercing Theon with those pale, pale eyes, round and strange. There’s no serenity there, in that white storm. There’s no going back. His hands are punishing and grasping his jaw, turning him to face Ramsay.

“No… Don’t look away, look at me!” He’s breathing so hard into his face that Theon thinks he’s going to be left without oxygen.

He’s pounding into him as steadily as in the beginning and that’s when Theon feels it. There’s a strange fire, unlike of an orgasm. It goes on and on and on, there’s no liberation, just a false promise of it. It’s even better than the completion and the emptiness that comes with it. It’s killing him, that’s how powerful it feels, the impossibility of release.

Ramsay just looks at him and smiles knowingly.

“If you want it so much, why don’t you get it, hm? There's no victory in giving up. ”

“Take this burden away, take it away, make me forget…”

It’s early November when things get more serious and it starts frightening Theon.

 

.

.

.

His father is dead and his girlfriend is pregnant. He wants to cry but instead he laughs and cries at the same time. He never wanted any of it. He never wanted anything. It’s like the universe decided to play a very cruel joke on him instead. He needs some time alone but Jeyne became so clingy since she found out she’s going to have a baby that Robb thinks he’ll suffocate.

He wants to blame it all on Theon and on Jon but he can’t say it out loud. He can’t say it at all.

He just sobs and sighs and laughs and yells hysterically. Jeyne is out with her mother and it’s the only alone time he’s got in weeks. He needs to be free and he doesn’t know how to take it. He’s never taken anything; he’s been given a lot of things that he never wanted in the first place. He’s given a lot of rubbish things but he’s never been given one thing and that thing is now gone forever from his life or so he thinks. How could it be otherwise?

Whenever he closes his eyes he remembers Theon from that night, unaware and careless. He’s always wanted what he had. Freedom or the appearance of it, the illusion of it. He wanted to be in Jon’s stead so much that night and he couldn’t take his eyes off them but it wasn’t his name that Theon whispered, it was his brother’s.

“Well, that’s the drama,” he says between his fingers and really wants to ignore the situation at hand. He misses Theon and wants to have his reassuring presence once again. He wants to tell him all the things he never could, all his stupid, boyish dreams all his hopes and expectations, all his fears. Kissing him, he’s always wondered about… What would it feel like, would Theon say his name and then forget that he’s been loud and shameless all along?

That body, golden and sinewy, pressed hard against his… Robb knows it is nothing like Jeyne’s. He just knows because he felt it before, in passing. They were too comfortable together, even as kids.

Sometimes, Robb thinks that this whole mess had to happen but it’s the fleeting memories of Theon that disturb his bereavement and confuse his mind. He still dreams of Theon and the things they used to do as kids and teenagers. He still dreams of Jon, even though he’s forgiven him a long time ago.

He dreams of Theon and it's nothing like the reality. His body craves it, his mind plights for it.

And now he has to bury his father. _Their_ father. He can’t let them come. He can’t… he’s just too afraid. He searches every drawer for it until he finds it. It’s a small piece of paper with an address and a phone number. He is weak but he needs to see him.

He is weak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your support means so much to me so please comment and say what's on your mind! It's always a pleasure reading your thoughts on my work and it helps me improve a lot. It also helps me continue writing because I barely have time to eat these days. Somehow, writing helps me act like a normal person, even though I rarely think like one! Hugs to you all!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well... I should have updated sooner. And I have to sleep, so please, try to see past my typos and bad grammar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do try and have a nice and productive new year!  
> Give all you've got and have a happy life!  
> Amen!  
> You all have my virtual gratitude and my eternal friendship (also virtual, but nonetheless real)!

It’s before New Year’s Eve when he starts panicking and packing his bag. Everything’s a mess, now.

The world has been spinning out of control and everything seemed to just have happened without him having a say. Tied up. Metaphorically. Things are complicated. And that is an understatement.

When you realize that the problem is everything else, then you are totally, totally… no … not fucked, not screwed nor broken.  It happens to be beyond all that. You just become something, and it’s not even human. You are officially declared a work in progress and you don’t even know what you’re changing into. There is no sadness you can feel. There is only a base and beastly despair.

Ramsay always says that pain is beauty, but the kind of beauty he gives him sure endures an immense quantity of pain. His eyes are always cold, especially when he gives pain.

Instead of running away, he enters the first miserable bar he sees.

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.

.

It’s all because of that misstep.

Something he’d done. Something he never wished for. At least not for a long time. It was early December when he met him by accident. Yes, by accident. Something he could not avoid. With Ramsay’s affection mixed with a lot of aggression, Theon felt busy, he felt functional. He still worked, but just to prove that he could. He didn’t need the apartment anymore because he stayed most of the time at Ramsay’s. And please, don’t imagine that all they did was fuck.

No, because otherwise he wouldn’t have given in at the first touch after half of a beer bottle in half-light and stale air. His hair was red and he knew him.

Of course. He barred his exit from the restroom and his stubble was red and harsh and his eyelashes were dark, dark burgundy. And he smelled of alcohol. All the way up. His emerald green hoodie, the blue jeans, his e tall, tall frame. Short-cut fingernails, beautiful skin, pink and freckled. Eyes… drunken into an abyss of blue and green.

A really stupid mistake, if you ask me.

Those curls… man!

It was a hell of a night.

He sucked his cock of all things. Theon cried out for the entire bar to hear. They didn’t. Music was too loud. And that little smile at the end pierced right through his cock and reached his soul. It’s almost like a spriritual experience.

He’s a pervert, he knows. All that he can think for three straight are his dirty fingers in those russet curls, so rich, like melting fire. He wants to give him everything.

“I love you”, he said. “I’ve always loved you.”

He really smiles like a madman, his eyes are full of tears now and Theon knows that it’s not the alcohol talking for him. Somehow he’s always known that. Robb doesn’t usually say unnecessary shit. Not even when he’s drunk.

He fucking kisses his cum stained lips. And that russet hair. He can’t be bothered with thoughts of Ramsay now.

 

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.

Jon Snow found her. The copper-haired girl. The blue-eyed girl. Or were her eyes dark, swirly ash? No… those were Theon’s. Stormy grey. He gets them confused whenever he misses a chance to look into her eyes. He usually avoids doing that. He knows it will pass, like all bad habits.

Her feet are small but her legs are strong. It’s no surprise that she used to be in the soccer team.

Her name is Ygritte and he has found her, after many years that passed by in a turbulent and disastrous manner. She belongs to him and he belongs to her. Once again. They’re back to being a couple now. This time it’s real.

Her pale arm caresses his chest and it’s like the first time. Now he lives with her and her friends in a frat-house. She’s as cool as ice and as beautiful as ever. Of course that he wants to ask her.

It’s the perpetual question that pushes at the corners of his mind. It wants to be let out, free. But he can’t ask her why she left him like that, without a word.

Then… the magic would go away.

He chose her pale hand on his chest and her crooked smile curling close to his pulse on the neck. He chose comfortable silence interspersed with tense moments of avoidance.

He hasn’t heard a word from Robb.

He has heard rumors instead. Who says he’s not sad? It was his loss too. He has to get over it. Those who say he has no feelings should just kill themselves.

Her teeth are so white and her tongue is almost red. Such a pretty color. Theon had white teeth. But then again… he hasn’t seen him in so long… he doesn’t know what to think anymore.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he loses her again.

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.

.

After the dog collar incident, Theon decides that this humiliation shouldn’t continue. He soon decides that death is the only option for him. As he lies slumped on the saltire, the idea of finally escaping this torment fills him with slight pleasure. He imagines that this is how the gates of heaven might seem to the sinner that has travelled a long way from the deepest bowels of hell.

“Kill me.”

The voice is raspy, raspy and too dry. Theon imagines blood flooding his throat to lubricate it for speech, but he is so dehydrated that he’s sure the skin cracked a long time ago.

Ramsay pretends not to understand. Mockingly, he demands to hear again.

“What did you say?”

“Kill me.”

It sounds less like a demand than a plea, and Theon expects that even though cruel, death will finally come and take him in its grip. Away from Ramsay.

“What? I didn’t hear you.”

“Kill me.”

He says it as loud as his parched, coarse throat will allow. By now it is decisive. Third time’s a charm, isn’t it? Theon hopes that the magic will come true and he’ll get out. Out of this sick game that he doesn’t understand, out of the numerous evil tricks out of the terrible japes that Ramsay creates just for him.

“You are of no use to me dead.”

The answer breaks him. His wish lies forgotten in a corner of his mind and Ramsay continues at his desk without paying any attention to Theon, or Reek, how he has baptized him. Ramsay has butcher hands. His fingers are heavy, cruel, too white and terrifying. Especially his large thumbs. They creep Theon out as they pull on the belts at his wrists. Tighter and tighter still.

That day, Theon dies anyway, against his own body perverse will to continue.

.

.

.

Jeyne and Ramsay are just a charade. Jeyne and Robb are a charade, but they at least understood that. This Jeyne is one sad film. He wants to forget her. 

It’s too bad that he had to lick her cunt to make Ramsay want to fuck her. She didn’t last long before she killed herself. Her belly was full of snakes, anyway. Her eyes were mad with fear. Her face, a ghost’s.

Or did he kill her? Did he, really? Ramsay’s hands were stained red that night.

They made love. Ramsay was unexpectedly gentle and normal. He even shivered. He seemed relieved, somehow.

He can’t remember.

He can’t remember much now, anyway. He is just Reek, it rhymes. It rhymes. It rhymes.

It fucking rhymes!

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.

.

 

It’s been a while since then and after a particularly rough fuck, however, he tries again. It’s winter again, inside it’s warm but he feels cold anyway.

 It’s not that he cannot take it anymore; it’s not that he cannot be Reek anymore. It’s beyond all comprehension and things started to fall into place for once in his miserable life. After giving the property to Ramsay, after watching another girl being tortured by him, after the numerous dead bodies eaten by his dogs, he doesn’t even know whether Theon resurfaced or whether it’s his body deciding not to go on anymore.

 Today, lying in Ramsay’s bed slicked with sweat, his skin twitches involuntarily under Ramsay’s hands and the blooming bruises stop hurting. Again, this scares him worse than the whip, than the belt or the flaying knife. It is true that sometimes the bastard uses his medical knowledge to avoid too much damage or too much pain but Reek cannot feel it anymore. The pain is gone and he feels as if submerged in water. Is he dead?  He tries to smooth his stumps over his bruised abdomen, darkened with spots ranging from purple to yellow and he can barely feel the touch.

How is this possible? He wonders and no answer comes into his feeble, broken mind apart from the usual self-diagnosed post-traumatic dissociation.

No, it’s not dissociation. He cannot feel and soon, he realizes that he cannot taste his own blood in his mouth.

He lets it trickle on the ivory pillow unafraid of Ramsay’s reaction.

It’s already dirty with cum and sweat and the bastard couldn’t care less. He feels sated behind him, clasping his narrow, skinny waist with his strong, alabaster arms.

They feel foreign, like tree branches that have grown awkwardly around some pillar of stone. There is no sensation, just a dead weight on his stomach. He is made of stone.

The sensorial message doesn’t translate. He just imagines how they would feel, but he cannot really tell.

The bastard breathes steadily at the nape of his neck, awake and watching his creature with interest, as he always does.

Once more he traces his tongue on the empty spaces he knows were his teeth, but it’s numb.

Sensory overload? A paralysis of sorts? 

No…

No…

This is not normal.

He wanted to question his reaction. He wanted to let reek in, to forget how to care and think for himself but Jeyne’s pained screams echoed in his mind like the reminder of a scar and he could not name a bad thing that the poor girl has ever done to deserve a cruel and violent death at the butcher’s hands.

He forced his stumps again on the bruises this time. He pierced the skin with  his uneven, dirty nails, he bit harder on his lip, on his tongue. Nothing. He felt nothing. He decides to try harder, so he hits his chest with a sorry excuse of a fist.

This time it earns a snort from Ramsay. He is particularly pleased and amused today because Reek has been exceptionally good and obedient.

His laugh that follows is weird, crystalline and the sharp, white teeth that show remind Theon of a cat.  Ramsay turns half way towards him.

“If you want to get hit just ask me. It will be my pleasure…”

His tone is amused and he regards Reek, no, Theon with incredulous pale eyes that still manage to create a surreal impression on his fractured mind.

“Please, do…”

Somehow, he cannot understand the words that leave his mouth and that is something to be expected after the year spent with Ramsay.

The bastard’s eyebrows rise and he is obviously trying to gain a sitting position above his Reek. Control, he wants to exert and exude control, power, and domination. Theon accepts it as he always does.

“I don’t do thinks whenever you want, weakling.” He snarls, his upper lip curling dangerously and now Theon can picture one of those aggressive dogs that Ramsay so much liked.

His strong, monstrous hands latch at his frail neck and Theon shuts his eyes trying to remember, to remember the feeling, the pain, the impending asphyxiation. He cannot and he focused so hard that when he opens his eyes, they dart from side to side for a second and then settle in a calm and quiet gaze. He meets Ramsay’s and he feels unafraid, for the first time in this position. He cannot break the stare and although he never intended to be anything else but submissive, Ramsay is too shocked to even growl insults in his face or beat him to a pulp.

His pale, icy eyes, vast and remarkable in their creation are unable to assess what’s going on with his pet.

“Don’t tell me that you started liking that.”

He laughs proudly to himself and then both hands start trailing lazy circles on the bruised chest as if trying to elicit gasps and moans of pain from his captive pet.

Theon is silent and impassive. His eyes reach a place far above Ramsay, on the perfect, white ceiling, searching for something that isn’t there.

“I…” he starts, wavering from exertion.

“I… I can’t feel a thing.”

Ramsay stops and gives him a questioning look that in his terms is supposed to be amused and shortly angered.

He laughs instead, as if this is but a slapstick comedy, badly acted and with no catch.

Theon listlessly forgets how much his master, his butcher, dislikes whenever his eyes wonder to faraway places and don’t face fixedly into his pale ocean. He should try again. Actually, ever since Ramsay’s refusal to end him, he longed for that perfect moment when he couldn’t feel anything anymore. But then again, at the time he was brutalized beyond repair with too much pain and all that he wanted was to escape it’s sharp, unwelcome edged. Now, he wished for it, he welcomed it, but it never came. Neither did Ramsay’s blow. Time stood still.

“Kill me.”

His master’s eyes flicker with something strange at his pet’s words. His eyes narrow in a promise of pain.

Fine, you can hurt and punish my corpse later but now, it doesn’t matter.

Reek, weak, leak, meek, freak. Yes, freak. I’m a freak, I can’t feel a thing.

“You heard me”, he said, his voice bolder, raspier. “I said I want you to kill me. Kill me now.”

Ramsay’s face becomes once again the solid block of ice that Reek knows perfectly well it’s his thinking face. He frowns looking at the prone figure below him, suspecting, analyzing, calculating.

Since when does his pet Reek play games?

His features sharpen and he draws a slow, long breath. Then he exhales in Reek’s face and he is extremely serious this time.

"We’ve had this talk before." By that he means that he never intended to give consideration to the matter again.

 _"You’re of no use to me dead"_ he said, completely devoid of empathy.

The words were ringing in his ears, cold, dead.

“I know.” He managed weakly but dared to continue.

“Yet, I want you to kill me.”

“I don’t answer to your wants and needs, pet.”

The voice was a growl now, infuriated, the tone beastly and promising a good beating, maybe the scalpel… who knew?

“Then I’ll do it.”

He made a decisive move to get out of the bed and Ramsay allowed him, more for amusement and curiosity than for anything else. He looked at his pet with strange eyes, waiting.

Theon went to the bathroom. It was probably the first time in months that he went without permission. He tried to relieve himself but his body did not cooperate. Then he forced himself to wander through the cabinets. Pills? No. Not pills. Instead, he found Ramsay’s razor and released it from its casing.

Stainless steel, it said. Good. Reek knew that even animals engaged in suicidal behavior from time to time. Ramsay was a resident physician; he’ll understand it better than anyone. Without further thoughts, he buried it into his left wrist, cutting as deep as possible. He waited for the sharp and dull pain and the trickle of blood. The drops were ruby red and dark, yet the pain never came. He managed to mangle his wrist in such a fashion that it would be impossible not to lose enough blood to die and with unsure movements he transferred the razor, already sticky with fluid to his other wrist and viciously, he tore at the skin.

He watched fascinated as it started pooling on the marble floor of the bathroom and on the margins of the sink.

It streaked and trickled, it reminded him of a lazy rain on a summer afternoon at Pyke. And just because he didn’t want to extend his nightmare that gave him no thrill and not even the ghost of an ache, he resumed by trying to identify and then destroy any chance for the world of the living by tracing it precisely over his neck. It gushed and his heart made a flip but as quickly as it got startled, it calmed down in that solid sea of lethargy.

“What are you doing in there?”

Ramsay’s voice was weak, faint and unimportant.  He managed to grab the edge of the sink mostly because he wanted to look straight into those big, icy eyes before his last breath. He felt like a feather, floating on air. He could see the incessant flicker of the neon lights above him. How it upset his eyes, pupils enlarged owlishly, most probably.

His footsteps were heavy and Ramsay must have stopped at the threshold. It’s actually very hard not to give in to gravity and fall to the floor, he realizes futilely. He hears Ramsay from the other side and he waits for him to come in and shower all his rage at him. He needs to see his face, to see he’s uncontrollably mad.

He seems to wait forever, because Ramsay doesn’t enter the bathroom. He fights to keep his eyes open and he struggles to speak but he’s too fucking weak.

Theon’s world switched to black and black and more black.

 It doesn’t seem to ever end.

 

.

.

.

He’s into photography now. Ygritte thinks it suits him. His brothers and friends do too. They all meet from time to time. Sam likes to make funny faces and his adopted kid smiles like a monkey. Robb looks older; he seems wiser, more resigned. His contours fade for a moment as he adjusts the camera. His eyes look lost, as if he’s not there. It’s the worst kind of lack of presence. He looks faded. It just happens, Jon has to admit. He keeps looking away, saying that snow keeps getting in his eyes.

The problem with the red-haired people in Jon’s life is that they can’t keep still for a second. And so does Sam’s little adopted son. He has dark hair, but he’s constantly moving. Hard to capture him on film. The wind is messing Ygritte’s long, long hair. It’s like everything’s a blur of copper and silk. The sky is grey.

Just like his eyes. What’s his name again?

Robb has little to say when he’s around.

It’s actually nice for a winter day. How odd…

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.

.

They found him on the pavement, missing several fingers, toes and teeth. There was snow everywhere, no tracks.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what's going to happen. Really...  
> All I did was let go.  
> :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...an epilogue of sorts

It was a terribly hot summer day in the South of Westeros. The smell of freshly cut grass intermingled with the dust-filled air, made it a sweet pain to breathe. To Jon who was used with the far North, it felt suffocating.

Many months have passed since they found him dying in the snow and Jon couldn’t convince himself to visit the Asylum. Not yet, he said. Not ever, his mind reeled. He could not remember exactly how many years have passed since he last saw Theon properly. It wasn’t as if they liked each other. And _that_ … it happened a long time ago, so it was nothing but a dusty memory that clashed violently with his recent responsibilities.

.

.

.

Her departure, though, changed everything. Red hair like copper, shining in the cold cold sun. he still found strands of it clogging the pipes, on the carpet, under the bed. That was the reason he moved. Well… one of the reasons. Constant reminders. Little things that came back to him and taunted him. She was gone, and she was gone forever. It was as if his return was to blame. And maybe it was.

.

.

.

Today, somehow… thoughts of Theon flooded his mind. On repeat. The things he thought lost and erased from memory were now coming back to him with tremendous velocity and unendurable detail.

“You sure won’t forget the room, right?”

It was Robb’s voice booming from the hallway as Jeyne prodded him to hurry up, _hurry up_ , because her parents were waiting with fresh lemonade and falsely benevolent smiles on little home depot benches. They were on vacation. Mending their relationship or rather lying to each other a lie so credible that everybody else believed it. Everybody except Jon who had been so struck with grief he couldn’t even show it. He still loved her. But why the thoughts of… him?

“It’s 706, left wing…” Robb seems to still think that he’s got a short attention span for some reason.

He can’t help but frown at the thought.

“Close to the lake, white metal bars, yeah I got it,” he practically shouts back from the kitchen. There’s a hint of annoyance in the way he says the words. He never thought Robb would want to give him such details. He became more nervous as he searched uselessly for some alcohol. He stashed it, as unusual as it may seem, under the kitchen sink, along with the detergents and other supplies. The chances of Robb or Jeyne finding that out were extremely slim, as all they did was look at each other.

“Got it,” he mumbled to himself as he found a half-full bottle of whiskey. He took an awkward swig straight from the bottle, then another, then another. Good. That would take the edge off.

“And don’t forget to get him a present or something, yeah?” Robb’s voice was fading as Jon could guess Jeyne was dragging him out the door.

“Honey, we’re going to be late! I’m sure Jon’s going to do just fine, you’ll see.” Her voice was conciliatory if not a bit exhausted. And Jon was sure they were now muttering _I love yous_   on the way to the car. Right, because they didn’t make that clear enough by mouth fucking each other in Jon’s sight earlier today.

He checked the watch again. It was almost 12:30. Good. He was in no hurry. He couldn’t make himself hurry after he’d waited for years. Avoiding the inevitable… how immature of him!

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.

.

Wasterosi asylums were nothing if proficient looking. Green gardens, white buildings, clean staff, patient psychiatrists. A semblance of sanity, Jon thought. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that made his head turn or his eyes roll. Looking for Theon Greyjoy has never been so easy in all his life. Now he was confined to a room and a floor in a building everyone knew. There was nothing mysterious going on, nothing enticing, nothing taboo.

One of the female nurses walked him to the door. Room 706. Building A, left wing. The door was pale blue, though. As pale as the unfocused eyes that seemed to welcome him.

  Theon’s curls were paler too. His face was a strange mix of nervous energy and fear. Somehow, that unsettled Jon as well. He expected white walls and clinical beds, he expected Theon in a state between loss of speech and loss of reason, and maybe that was true of him, but he kind of looked presentable. If not for the strange gait and some non-existent fingers. Cut off fingers, mutilated hands but a mouth full of fake teeth and transparent skin around the eyelids.

Theon had changed.

Jon changed as well.

“Theon?”

The name slipped. It felt like a forgotten language, one stuck into his brain but a stranger to his lips. Theon just looked at him, huge eyes darting from right to left.

“He is not accustomed to your presence, yet. He made a great deal of progress, though.”

The nurse smiled jovially and approached Theon reassuringly.

Theon didn’t flinch at her touch but seemed to welcome it.

“See? He gets better every day!”

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.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... this might continue as part of another series... if time allows. Thanks for your support!


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